


(The Desire) That Burns Me in Its Flame

by Plainxte



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Angst, Ballet AU, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Multi, Music, Mutual Pining, Overthinking, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Language, Pining, References to Past Eating Disorders, SO MUCH FLUFF, Slow Burn, body image issues, dancer!Roger, dancer!freddie, pianist!Brian, references to restricted eating, scenographer!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24007732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/pseuds/Plainxte
Summary: In the spring of 1976, Royal Ballet dancer Freddie Mercury was faced with a new kind of challenge. Creating a new ballet could lead to fame and fortune, new friendships and maybe even something more – or it could just as easily lead to heartbreak and a career gone awry…Or: measure out equal amounts of dancing, music, choreography, friendship, pining, and maybe even love, mix well, shake, and let's see what happens
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, Past Mary Austin/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 171
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story would not have happened (and it definitely wouldn't have been posted) if it hadn't been for the wonderful quirkysubject, who has both alpha'd and beta'd it - and who was there at the beginning, who listened patiently to my rambling, who pointed out all the problems and asked all the right questions. Who made this so much better in so many ways. Thank you so, so much! 💖
> 
> And thank you from the bottom of my heart to nastally and Tikini for support, encouragement and belief in this, and for being there!
> 
> Do come talk to me in the comments! Or to shout at me, if you like!

_Freddie landed in a_ plié, _looking at Roger. Their eyes met and held; connected. Freddie had only experienced this kind of a connection on stage a handful of times, and never with this intensity. Never when it mattered this much. Even though they were in the middle of the performance, under the glare of the stage lights, and every pair of eyes in the audience trained their way, in that moment, Freddie felt that nothing except the two of them existed. He was supremely focused on being in command of his movements, but at that moment, he felt like Roger could read his mind. Like he could hear his every thought. I love you, Freddie said, lifting into an_ arabesque. _I love you with every fibre of my being, the movement of his hand said. You are my reason for existing. The stylised caress of his hand on Roger's cheek, the way they breathed in unison when Roger lifted him, and then spun on, meeting and parting and meeting again – everything repeated those words, over and over again. His eyes held his soul as he looked at Roger. And Roger looked back._

* * *

**Ten months earlier (May 1976)**

Tights, t-shirt, slippers. Better grab a spare pair of those, just in case. He took a sip of tea from the cup cooling on the edge of the dresser. Legwarmers, dance belt, liniment and plaster, towel. It all went into his bag, accompanied by his wallet, a notebook and a pen. Keys, handkerchief, that was it, he was ready. Freddie pulled the zipper shut and looked into the mirror one last time. He drew his hand through his hair and adjusted the collar of his shirt minutely, pursing his lips critically. His bell-bottomed jeans were snug on his hips and he just needed to grab his sunglasses to complete the look.

He was cutting it close this Monday morning. He should have been on the Tube already, heading towards Covent Garden. He knew that, but he couldn't get himself to muster up the energy and drive to get going. Not quite yet. Mary had already left, of course. She was always more organised than he was, and they had long since given up on trying to synchronise their schedules, even though they were headed to the same company class.

He had stayed up later than usual the night before. He had known it was a bad idea. But the temptation to make the most of his day off had just been too much to refuse. He so rarely had the chance to just be, these days. Put a record on, lie back, drift away in his thoughts, just let the music take over… it had been heaven.

Ballet had been his whole life for so long, but lately he wasn't sure if it was his future anymore. He loved dancing as much as ever, but at the moment it seemed a bit difficult to be enthusiastic about life in the ballet company. On stage he felt alive like nowhere else, and the fire that drove him to connect with an audience and to express himself burned as hot as ever. But right now, it was banked, just a little, because what he mostly felt was tired. Tired of himself, tired of the company, its byzantine politics and relationships, the struggle for attention and power and success. And most of all, what it all boiled down to, was that he was very tired of the roles he was dancing.

In his head, he ran through the ballets and the roles he had danced in the past year. Too familiar, all of them, by now. A hero's best friend. An outsider. Roles danced wearing heavy masks and disguises… it was always the same thing. The same productions, over and over again. Staring in the mirror, he wondered if this coming season would bring with it something new, some new spark, indeed, that would re-ignite the flame. If not… well, maybe it really would be time to move on.

_And who will you be then?  
Who are you, if you're not a dancer?  
Nobody?  
Work in an office somewhere? Nine to five, suit and tie?  
Or be a teacher? Evening classes, ballet for adults on Saturdays?_

He met his own eyes in the mirror, wondering, frowning at the dark circles underneath them. 

And talking about moving on, if he didn't stop dithering right this minute, he would be hopelessly late to company class. That would be unforgivable. Particularly on a day like this, when the next season's plans were about to be released after the class.

* * *

It was difficult for Freddie to imagine a life without ballet. He didn't really remember a time before a regime of rehearsals and practising. He supposed there was the period before his family arrived in Britain, but most of it was lost in a nebulous haze. Only glimpses of it remained. The warmth, and the smells, and the different light. And the chaos of the revolution. But everything that came after had all but eclipsed it in his mind. 

In their new suburban life, Freddie had quickly made the acquaintance of a retired ballet teacher, a lady named Mrs Collins, who lived next door to them. For whatever reason, Mrs Collins had taken note of the small boy with the long limbs, the overabundance of energy, the tendency to get lost in his own head, and decided that he should be given the chance to dance. Freddie didn't know to this day how exactly she had managed to persuade his parents to agree to it. But persuade them she did, and from that point on, dancing had become Freddie's everything.

It hadn't been an easy thing for Freddie's parents to accept, but Freddie's clear talent had smoothed the way. Only a year after starting lessons, he had received a scholarship to the Royal Ballet School; they could hardly have said no to that. But Freddie knew his parents still weren't happy with his choice of career. 

Nevertheless, one thing had led to another, and eventually, Freddie's talent had propelled him into being asked to join the Royal Ballet itself. He had progressed quickly through the ranks of the company, too, and now, at twenty, he was a soloist. That was remarkable in itself. His ambition, coupled with the knowledge of how much he had to fight against, how many people were sure that he could never succeed, had made him determined to show everyone, to yell _I told you so_ to the whole world. 

As people kept reminding him, he was, after all, an immigrant, and therefore an outsider. _From a colonial background,_ as they said, politely (or at least that's what they were trying to be, in their own minds).

Of course, the ballet world considered itself a welcoming, international community. His own company prided itself on having dancers from different countries; Russians, Americans, Scandinavians… but it seemed that not all foreigners were the same. Even when those foreigners had British passports.

Usually he tried to not let it get to him. But he knew very well – how could he not? – that there were many people in the company who were jealous of his standing. And many whispers about how _that person_ really didn't deserve to be a soloist. That there were _many of our own_ who should be _given a chance._ There were numerous factions, after all, inside the house, and an endless number of rivalries and jealousies. And even though the directors of the company liked Freddie, and he had received excellent reviews for his roles so far, lately it had seemed to him as though the particular faction that was in the ascendant would have liked nothing better than to see him gone. Maybe he was paranoid about it, but then again, the ballet was an environment that fostered just that.

And perhaps the way he seemed to have been stuck in the same roles lately, or the same _kind_ of roles, had something to do with that, too. But that couldn't be deliberate, could it? Well, maybe this season would, indeed, bring a change. Something had to change, in any case.

* * *

Freddie slipped in the door in the nick of time, just as the ballet mistress was starting her instruction. He smiled apologetically in her direction, took up a place right at the end of the barre that was miraculously free. He pushed his bag out of the way with his foot, to rest against the mirror, and tried to clear his mind of everything except the routine of getting his body warmed up for the day.

"Now that we're all here," the ballet mistress said drily, "we'll start from first position. Two _demi-pliés_ and then..."

After shaking off the inevitable eye-rolls and pointed glances that his colleagues cast his way, Freddie was finally able to focus. Slowly he felt the cobwebs of sleep clearing from his mind as his muscles started to stretch and warm up. And during the _ronds de jambe à terre,_ Freddie caught Mary's quick, warm smile from the other side of the room, and it warmed him up from the inside, too. He really was lucky to have Mary in his life.

* * *

Wiping the sweat from his face, and listening to the chatter of his fellow dancers, Freddie finally made his way to the all-important noticeboard after class. There was a small crowd clustered around the board, babbling excitedly, and it took a long while of nervous waiting before Freddie was able to squeeze his way close enough to see what the future held in store. He was conscious of sidelong glances directed his way, but that was just business as usual, wasn't it?

But then. He couldn't quite believe his eyes at first. There had to be some – some other list somewhere, hadn't there? The more he looked, the more frustrated he felt.

Well. It wasn't all bad. Not really. He scanned the list once again. There was Mercutio; that at least would be something he hadn't danced a million times before. But there were five dancers listed for the role. The chances of actually getting to perform it that many times weren't great. And as for the rest... Solor's variation from _La Bayadère._ Again. It wasn't as though he didn't like doing it, but... He sighed. At this point, he felt he could do it with his eyes closed. 

There was, of course, a point to trying to find new angles and new ways of presenting the same character on the stage, to show different aspects of the character each time he performed. It was just that he had the feeling that he'd already spent the whole of the previous season doing just that.

And then there were bits and pieces in _The Nutcracker_ and in _The Sleeping Beauty_. Nothing new there. But… that was it? Was there really nothing else? What was he supposed to be doing with the rest of his time? Was this really happening – was he really being pushed to the sidelines? Was this the directors letting him down easily in the hopes that he'd come to his own conclusions without anyone needing to actually say the words?

Just as he was close to panicking, he spotted an addendum at the bottom of the page that had escaped his notice, so focused had he been on trying to get a general view of what was happening. 

_NB: Bersin, Mercury, and Testi: see Administrative Producer Sheffield_

That sent a new wave of alarm through him. Why did they want him to talk to Sheffield? What about the others? Mike Bersin and Ken Testi were both dancers, like him. But Sheffield, who had been clear from the outset of his dislike of Freddie and who avoided him whenever possible, why was he explicitly asked to go and see him? Was he going to be... Fired? Be asked to leave? What?

Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. He shuffled sideways a little, trying to not block the noticeboard, and leaned his head against the wall. He tried to calm himself down and not let anyone else know how he was feeling. He was sure he wasn't doing a particularly good job of it, but he was damned if he was going to have a full-blown breakdown in front of the others.

That thought brought him up short. It would be best to get this over and done with as soon as possible, really. Rip the plaster off. Find out how bad the situation was. If this was his last day as a dancer, he'd rather hear it straight out instead of guessing. He knew that he was probably overreacting. If he was going to be fired, he wouldn't have been on the list at all, would he? It was difficult to convince himself of that, though. He pushed himself resolutely off the wall, heading off in the direction of Sheffield's office on unsteady legs, still feeling dizzy. He ignored it all, and concentrated on walking. He heard someone calling his name behind him, but he couldn't stop. If he did, he would crumble. He straightened his shoulders and marched on resolutely.

* * *

Freddie was lucky; he found Sheffield in his office. There was no queue and no one else there, although the sounds of someone talking on the phone were wafting in from the next room. If anything, it seemed as though Sheffield had been expecting him.

"Ah, Mercury," he said, folding his hands on the top of the table. "Do come in. So good of you to come promptly."

"I came as soon as I saw the notice, sir," Freddie said, still a little breathless. He was trying to appear collected and give nothing away. He wasn't going to give up easily. The walk down the corridor and up the stairs to the administrative department had made him determined to fight for his position. "What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?"

Despite himself, he crossed his fingers behind his back. _Please, please..._

"Well. It's this next season." Sheffield steepled his fingers. Freddie wondered if he thought it made him look in control, or sophisticated, perhaps. Mainly it just made him look like a cartoon villain. Or like someone who had watched too many James Bond films.

"I'm sure you noticed you have fewer roles scheduled than usual, for next season."

"Yes, I was wondering about that," Freddie said, worried but determined not to give an inch. Sheffield would need to spell it out clearly if he wanted him out. Freddie wouldn't help him.

"You see, Mercury, it's an experiment."

 _An experiment,_ Freddie repeated flatly in his head. _That's what my career is to you? My whole life?_

"We will be trying out a couple of new initiatives this season, here at the Royal Ballet. Tapping into new creative talent, you know. And we're planning on working more closely with schools, and all that. But what concerns us here, today, is that we are planning to give a selected couple of our dancers a unique chance. How does that sound to you?"

"I'm... I'm not sure, sir. What kind of a chance?" Freddie asked, uncertain of what he was being asked, or where the conversation was heading. 

_And why does he sound like he is holding a press conference? There's no way he came up with all that just at the spur of the moment. Royal "we" and everything._

"Oh, we were just thinking that you might like to be involved in this new initiative," Sheffield said smoothly. "New horizons, and all that. But only if you'd like to, of course. But we feel it might be something for you. We're thinking of giving you a chance to make your own choreography, your own piece, here at the company. We're assuming you'll be choreographing it for yourself, but you're free to choose whoever you want to collaborate with – of course, they'll need to want to work with you, too," Sheffield laughed.

Freddie didn't know what to say. It would have sounded like an interesting proposition, extremely so, in fact, if Sheffield's smile hadn't been too fixed. There was something unpleasant, something too calculated about it. And what would it mean, exactly – making a choreography? Usually the company liked to choose carefully whose work would be presented on stage. For as long as Freddie could remember, only established choreographers had been considered suitable.

"Anyway," Sheffield continued. "There's a series of mixed programme evenings coming up in the autumn, as I'm sure you're aware of. October and November, the same as usual. Your own choreographed piece could become a part of those. And, of course, if it's a success, well then, the sky's the limit. If not, it's a different matter. But we'll talk about that later. And I suppose it goes without saying that, as you know, those kinds of things could very well launch a career in an entire new direction," he said, looking at him pointedly.

Freddie grimaced to himself. It could be fantastic, and it could be anything but. And he wasn't just imagining it, was he? There was something decidedly unpleasant about Sheffield, and the way this was going. But at least he wasn't being fired immediately. That was something, wasn't it? 

"Oh, and we'd like to encourage you to also see if you want to collaborate with someone outside the Royal Ballet. There's not a great deal of money budgeted for this" – Sheffield frowned – "but we've all agreed that if you want to bring one or two guest artists in, that would be fine. No more than that, though, we can't afford to go over budget. But collaboration is the word of the day, apparently, and we'd like your contribution to reflect that."

 _Why does it sound like you don't want me to choreograph a dance for my colleagues?_

Freddie still couldn't make out what Sheffield's game was, exactly, and whether he should be waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

"So, what's your feeling, Mercury? Would you like to give it a go? You'd be given pretty free rein to do it, and of course, with the new schedules, you'd have the time to work on it, too."

Freddie threw his head back. He decided then and there that if he was going down, he was going to go down fighting.

"Oh, but that sounds fantastic. Something completely new. Absolutely, darling, I'd love it," Freddie said, gritting his teeth, daring Sheffield to doubt or contradict him, or to call him out for failing to address him as "sir".

Head held high, he walked out of the office, determined to not let anyone see the raging storm inside him. 

_They're going to make a laughing-stock out of me by making me try something I have no chance of pulling off. I'm going to crash and burn. I'll be dismissed and no one in the world of dance will want to have anything to do with a failure like me. That's what I get for being bored. Complacent. Now it's going to be the end of everything. All my dreams. Everything. But they're not going to get the satisfaction of seeing me break down in public._

* * *

The rehearsal studio was already occupied. Freddie stopped dead in his tracks, disgruntled. He had been hoping to find some peace and quiet as well as a chance to get his emotions into check again. He was on the verge of backing out as silently as he could, when he looked a little closer and recognised the person leaning against the piano. 

Brian was standing with his head bent over a pile of sheet music stacked on top of the piano. It looked like he was currently looking at a score of _The Nutcracker,_ marking something on a page, wielding a pencil with great force. The book was dog-eared and numerous pieces of paper were sticking out of it, marking important pages. The score looked like a disaster waiting to happen. All it needed was a gust of wind and it would break apart, and the pages would go flying in different directions, Freddie thought. Brian himself didn't look much better than his book. In fact, he looked like he was about two seconds from exploding, and that was unusual. Maybe the next season didn't look all that great for him, either, then.

Freddie didn't actually know the rehearsal pianist all that well. He hadn't been with the company for long, and after all, it wasn't really done for dancers and musicians to mix all that much. It wasn't forbidden, but it was frowned on, a little. The two groups tended to move in their own circles. But there was something about Brian that had drawn Freddie irresistibly to him. Something about him had made Freddie curious, and slowly, they had struck up a cautious friendship. First, they had talked about the choice of pieces Brian played for their classes, a few words here and there. From there they had progressed to talking about music more generally, finding that they got along well, enjoyed each other's company greatly, and that they had surprisingly much in common. But even that was sometimes occasion enough for suspicious comments from the other dancers.

But perhaps that was only to be expected. The company lived on gossip, after all. Whether there was any foundation to it or not was secondary. And it wasn't as though Freddie cared all that much (no matter what he did, there was still going to be talk about him), as long as Brian didn't mind. He didn't seem to; in fact, he seemed more amused than anything by the rumours.

"Oh, hi, Freddie," he said, looking up from his book, still frowning. "Everything all right?" He sounded civil enough.

"Well," Freddie sighed. "I've had better days, darling," he said. "But how about you? What's wrong?"

Brian looked a little sheepish. He put his pencil down, giving the much-abused score in his hands a rest.

"No, it's not… I'm just being childish, really, that's all. I shouldn't be. But I'm being churlish because I'm not getting my own way. I'd been hoping that this season would be a little different from earlier, is all. I mean… I love this work, I do, but it gets a little repetitive at times," he said.

"I'm sure it does," Freddie said, sympathising, thinking of the enormous amount of times Brian had to perform the exact same music in exactly the same way in classes, in rehearsal, over and over again.

"Sometimes it does, yes. And I'd so hoped I'd get to work on something new this time around. Something that would make it all more interesting. But no. I'm sure you saw the list of works already. It's going to be just one more year of hammering out bloody Minkus from morning till night." He looked apologetically at Freddie. "I don't mean… you're excellent in _La Bayadère,_ you always are. You will be this season, too. It's always a true joy to get to accompany you. I don't mean that. But… I don't mind the Tchaikovsky and the Prokofiev is kind of fun, but Minkus, and Delibes too, they get old very quickly."

Freddie shook his head, trying to reassure Brian. "No, no, I know what you mean," he sighed. "It's just all the same things again, all season. For me, too. Except, you know, I was – I don't know if you noticed – I haven't got very many roles this season. But I talked to Sheffield just now. And, well –" 

He came to a halt, not quite knowing what he was trying to tell Brian.

"Really?" Brian's whole attention was on Freddie now, his hazel eyes focused and serious. "I didn't really – what did he say?"

"Well. He had a proposition for me, but I mean, don't know what he actually meant by it. And I don't know what I'm going to do."

Freddie hadn't planned to say that. He hadn't meant to admit that to anyone, not even Mary. But suddenly, Brian's concern and the gentle look in his eyes was too much for him, and he found himself telling him the whole story. Somehow, in that moment, he trusted Brian: he trusted that he wouldn't judge him, or use his words against him. 

"Sheffield said that they want me to do a choreography. Make up an entirely new work. Whatever I like, in fact. I get to choose, and to perform it next autumn."

"Well, that's definitely something new. And unexpected, I'd think," Brian said, raising his eyebrows. "Isn't it?"

"Yes, of course it is but – there was something about the way he said it. I don't know why they're offering it to me, and why now. They've never done anything of the kind before. And why Sheffield kept talking about – about how it needs to be a success. It was almost as though he was threatening me with repercussions if it wasn't – if it's not going to be. And, I mean, yes, I've done a bit of choreo in the past, but only for student productions and that kind of things. You know? Not for something like this. Something for the whole company and for the whole world to see."

Brian looked like he wanted to say something, but chose to settle back down instead. Freddie went on.

"I mean, an entire new work? Put on stage, in front of everyone, while they're all waiting for me to deliver – or fail? That's – yes, I mean, it could be a great chance for me and it could be wonderful. But it could all go utterly wrong, too. I don't know if I can explain it. But it feels like a trap of some kind. Or that there's something they're not telling me. They could use it to get rid of me. I mean, how – who am I going to – what am I going to – I don't even know where to begin."

He stopped, noticing that he had been pacing. He had a feeling he was wearing a groove in the floor of the studio. 

"What if –" he whispered. "What if I'm not able to do it? Or if I'm just not good enough? What if I fail, and they ask me to leave?"

He closed his eyes. 

"No, stop that, Freddie," Brian said. "That's rubbish and you know that. Don't say that."

Freddie felt him moving closer. He felt the air move and the warmth of his body close to his own. He opened his eyes and found Brian standing right in front of him. He took hold of his hands in both of his, squeezing slightly. Freddie was surprised at the sudden contact, but it was by no means unpleasant.

"You're brilliant, Freddie," Brian said. "You are. I know you are, and frankly, so does Sheffield. Or if he doesn't, he's an idiot. And so are his cronies. And what's more, I know you can do this, Freddie. If anyone can, it's you. Look here," he said. "You know, just tell me to shut up and go away if you like. But you're not alone here, you know. You don't need to do this all by yourself, unless you want to, of course. I don't know what Sheffield and his cohorts are up to, but I do know that you have plenty of friends in the company. Plenty of people who'd love to be involved in something like this."

He hesitated, releasing Freddie's hands and taking a step back.

"In fact, I'd... Freddie, you know you only have to say the word. I mean… if you want me to, I'd love to do the music for you. You don't have to, of course. But I could be your rehearsal pianist, and... if you'd be okay with it, if you'd give me a chance, I'd love to do the whole of musical direction. In which you'd have equal say, of course. Or, I mean, everything would be your decision in the end, really."

Brian looked flustered, fidgeting with his hands, as if unsure of how Freddie would react.

"But darling –" Freddie began. "I don't even know how to – would you really do that? I mean I'd love to work with you."

Brian's smile was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

"Really?" he whispered. "I've been dreaming of getting to do something like that for so long and –"

He cleared his throat, looking a little overcome with emotion. 

"If you'll have me, I'm here."

Freddie couldn't help the smile that was breaking out on his face in response to Brian's. 

"Oh, I will. You're mine, now. There's no getting away from me after this."

Brian outright grinned at that.

"What a dreadful fate," he joked, bumping their shoulders lightly together. "Seriously, though, Freddie. I want you to remember that you're not alone. I'm going to be here with you. And we'll do this together. You'll see. It'll be great." 

They looked at each other, then, co-conspirators, partners, two dreamers with their heads in the clouds. They couldn't seem to stop smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A constant touchstone for writing this story has been Maurice Béjart's _Ballet for Life,_ set to music by Queen and Mozart. It's pretty fantastic, I very warmly recommend it. You don't need to see it to read this, of course, but I suppose the whole of it is there somewhere, in the background of this fic.
> 
> [Here](https://www.abt.org/explore/learn/ballet-dictionary/) is a rather exhaustive and pretty useful ballet term glossary that I like
> 
> I've naturally taken liberties with the time period, life in the ballet company, and the characters. Do tell me if something feels off!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tentative steps, talking and planning, and a cat, of course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW:** This chapter contains references to restricted eating and past eating disorders. They're not the main focus of the chapter, but still, please read safely!
> 
> Thank you so much to quirkysubject for betaing (and alphaing!), and for making this story so much better! This would not be possible without you! 💖
> 
> And so many thanks to nastally and Tikini for listening to me overthinking, answering my odd questions, and for being there!

After the slow start on Monday morning and the near panic at the midday news, the rest of the week flew by in a flurry of activity and performance preparations. Freddie was dancing several roles in that week's programme, and he had his hands mostly full. Mary had been called to stand in for another soloist who had come down with a nasty bout of flu, and so they had barely exchanged a word all week, busy as they both were. In what spare time he had, Freddie had been frantically trying to go through all the ballets he knew and come up with a clear idea of what he wanted his own choreography to be about, but all his thoughts were still scattered. 

He had wracked his brain for ideas, and he had even spent a lunch break trying to work out some part of a beginning of a choreography. But it just didn't work. He tried out a sequence of jumps; but that was too close to one of the variations in a Frederick Ashton work that the company had done the season before last. Or maybe a _pirouette en dehors_? Or two? Could you move to a _fouetté_ from that, perhaps? If you followed it by _chainé_ turns and… and it made no sense. And led nowhere. There was no coherence, no underlying structure. Frustrated, he had stalked off, no wiser than when he had begun.

It didn't really help, either, that some of his fellow dancers seemed intent on sharing their thoughts on the project. Of course, he hadn't asked any of them for advice, and hadn't actually told them anything about it, either. Apart from Brian, it was wholly a private thing, so far. But that was the way it always was at the company; people were curious, and a bit jealous (even if they had no reason to be). Besides, many of them thought that it was always a good thing if you were able to undermine someone's confidence a little. They were, after all, always competing for the same roles and for the same chances.

Just before the last afternoon rehearsal on Wednesday, Freddie was ambushed by one of his dancer colleagues. 

"So, Freddie," he said, smiling a toothy smile. "I heard you took Sheffield up on his offer. This new initiatives thing. That's a bit surprising, isn't it? I'm not sure anyone else did, quite frankly. Well, Ken might've. But I talked to Mike, and he said there was no way he was going to be involved in something like that."

"Oh?" Freddie said, concentrating on fixing his legwarmer so that it was just the way he wanted it. He flexed his toes.

"Yes... It could end up really badly, don't you think? I don't think many people would have the ideas or the gumption to pull that kind of stunt off."

"Really?" Freddie said, now adjusting the slipper on his left foot.

"Well, don't you agree?"

Freddie sighed and straightened himself from where he had been bent over his leg.

"I'm not sure what is it that you want me to agree with, actually. Are you saying I lack the ideas? Or the gumption?"

"Oh, no, no, not at all," he said smoothly. "That's not what I meant. I was just curious about what you were planning, really. Will you have a large cast of dancers?"

"Well, I don't know what to tell you. But curiosity killed the cat, darling, isn't that what they say?"

His colleague laughed nervously. "Oh, don't be like that, Freddie. Come on, do tell me. Or are you going to make us all wait until the dress rehearsal to see what you've got up to? Just imagine what the gossip will be like, at that point!"

"Well, if people want to gossip, I can't help that, can I?" Freddie asked. "But yes, I'm afraid that's how it's going to be. For everyone. You'll just have to wait for it."

Freddie smiled, then; a small, tight, close-lipped thing. His colleague looked like he wanted to go on, but the arrival of the _répétiteur_ who was holding the rehearsal put a well-timed stop to that. Freddie was silently fuming, and then berating himself the next moment for getting upset unnecessarily.

* * *

The only time that week when his thoughts stopped in their frantic whirling was when he talked to Brian. Despite the crazy schedule, they managed to meet up in another empty rehearsal studio on Thursday. Brian was sitting at the piano, but facing the room and looking at Freddie, one leg crossed over the other, and gripping his knee, deep in thought. Freddie was back to wandering around the studio, trying out a tentative step there, a _dévéloppé_ here, or thinking about the placement of his arms.

"You know, from what you said earlier," Brian said, "I got the impression that they really haven't placed any restrictions at all on what you can do. Or did they?"

"Well," Freddie said, meeting Brian's eyes in the mirror. "I think they want it to be pretty small in scale. No entire _corps de ballet_ involved or anything like that, you know. But other than that, Sheffield did say I could do what I like."

"That's rather remarkable, actually," Brian mused. " _Anything_ you like?"

"Yes, I suppose it is a bit, at that. Sheffield said that I could determine the theme and the music and who I wanted to work with. I should see it like that, shouldn't I? As freedom to create?"

"Well, I think maybe you should. Explore the idea a little, in any case. And why wouldn't you be able to pull it off? You of all people, Freddie. If anyone can, it's you."

Brian turned on his stool, facing the piano the right way around. He patted a chair next to the piano, looking meaningfully at Freddie. He sighed, resigned to his fate, and sat down next to Brian.

"So, tell me," Brian said, placing his hands on the keyboard and playing a quick arpeggio. "If you could do anything, if you could dance to anything at all in the world, what would you like to do? And you can change your mind later, it doesn't need to be final. Chopin?"

He played a couple of familiar bars.

Freddie smiled, despite himself, and despite the anxiety he felt churning inside him.

"Yes, why not – but don't you think that's already been done, dear?"

"I suppose so," Brian said, changing the piece he was playing abruptly, into a stricter, more angular style. "How about something a little newer? Stravinsky? Or Shostakovich?" 

"Yes, why not –"

The music changed again. 

"Britten?"

Freddie made a face. "I'm not sure... I'd rather have something that's not so... I don't know – something that would be more..."

"Well, there's always Mozart?"

"Yes, that's more like it. Maybe it could be a combination of many things? I'd like to..."

He was hesitant at first. It felt odd, strangely vulnerable to talk about what he wanted, even if it was Brian who was asking. He was almost certain that Brian wouldn't judge him, but still it wasn't easy. 

"I'd like to do something that would be – I'd want it to be emotional enough. Does that make sense? I'd like something that would be – expressive, I suppose I mean, like the classics, as romantic as something like _Sleeping Beauty_. But I'd want it to have a twist. I'd like something like a couple of Balanchine's works, neo-classical ballet, you know, but not exactly that, either."

He waved his hands distractedly, trying to make the images in his head tangible somehow.

"I'd want the clear lines of a – a Balanchine choreography, I suppose. Not even the British tradition, I don't think. But I don't want to focus just on the physical spectacle, on the movement. On virtuosity. I want passion, too," he said with a laugh, feeling a little embarrassed over his own eagerness.

"Ah," was all Brian said. "So you'd want music that would reflect that?"

"Yes – I want to make the audience feel something. To be touched by the dancing. And I want to say something with it, something they can relate to. It has to be emotional enough. Grab them by their heartstrings. I want to have them in the palm of my hand, the entire audience, and for them to share in what I tell them. And that when they leave the auditorium, that they'll be completely blown away by what they have seen. What they have felt. Not to have them have been just coolly sitting and analysing the finer points of my technique."

He blushed. He felt self-conscious and like he had just revealed far too much of himself. _It's Brian,_ he reminded himself. _You want to work with Brian. That means you need to trust him. And you do, don't you?_ But still, he needed to backpedal, and to do it quickly. 

"I mean... Not that there's anything wrong with analysing. And it's probably completely outdated and out of fashion to look at it like that..."

"No, no," Brian said. "I don't think so, at all. Who cares what the current fashion is, or what someone else thinks? What _you_ want your piece to be, that's the important thing. To do your own thing and not just keep parroting others. Or try to fit into a mould. And to tell you the truth, I'd really want to see your ballet. Just that, what you described. More so than some of the other things the company is doing."

And suddenly, just like that, Freddie felt some of his confidence restored. Maybe the project wouldn't be instantly doomed to failure, after all.

* * *

Brian had agreed to meet up at Freddie and Mary's flat the next Sunday, when they'd have a little time to themselves. They both felt that it would be a good idea to take some time to listen to some music together and just talk.

He was feeling a little nervous about it, since Brian had never been to the flat before. Their friendship was deepening very quickly. But mostly he just felt an enormous sense of relief that Brian had so immediately wanted to be a part of the project. He had realised, after that planning session, how much he needed to have someone to talk to while he planned. Someone who he could exchange ideas with, perhaps.

But still, Freddie thought that he might have preferred to make all of his own decisions and to do everything by himself. But in a project like this, it was plainly impossible. And he wasn't sure that his sense of pride would have even allowed him to ask for help if Brian hadn't volunteered. 

But the fear of failure was a constant icy weight in his stomach. The scale of what they were going to do was enough to give him nightmares. And he only needed to think about the understanding in Brian's eyes and his gentle smile to feel a little better about the whole thing, to recover a little bit of confidence. So, all in all, he was more than happy to be a part of a small team, now. 

It had struck him, then, that he should have asked Mary to be involved, too. But he hadn't done so, until now. Perhaps he should, today. It was just that Mary habitually avoided all kinds of conflict as much as she possibly could. And Freddie had a feeling that no matter what he ended up doing, it would end up ruffling a few feathers in the company. Even more so than usually. There was a sizeable contingent of people at the company who would be sure to resent him doing this at all. Well, most of them resented him already. 

But the more he had the chance to think about it, the more he realised that this project would mean that he was sticking out of the crowd, and taking a risk. Funnily enough, for himself, it had just strengthened his resolve to see what he could do with this chance he had got. The old urge to show the whole world what he could do reared its head. But the same wasn't necessarily true of Mary. And he felt that he was already leaning so much on her, in so many ways. He constantly counted on her support, and he often felt he wasn't offering her all that much in return, so he didn't want to impose with this as well. But maybe he should ask her, all the same.

The situation between him and Mary was… complicated, for lack of a better word. There had been a time when they had been very much in love with each other and had had a romantic relationship. But it had all seemed to… fizzle out, somehow. But neither of them could afford rent on a place on their own, and they both had become rather fond of their really ridiculously small and cluttered, but airy and homey Kensington flat. 

It had seemed an easier solution to just continue as flatmates. The friendship that had been there all along with their brief romance was as strong as ever, and they got along surprisingly well. And as long as neither of them rocked the boat by falling in love with someone else, or by bringing someone to spend the night, they were fine.

When the doorbell finally rang on Sunday afternoon, Freddie realised belatedly that his indecisiveness meant that he had forgotten to mention Brian's visit to Mary at all. Too late, now, he thought, when he heard Mary's voice, surprised at finding the tall pianist behind their door.

Freddie hurried to meet them, the sleeves of his favourite dressing gown trailing after him. He loved wearing one around the house, but in a brief moment of icy dread, he wondered whether Brian would find it too strange. But there was no time to do anything about it; he found Brian already digging out a stack of LP's out of his bag. He was in the middle of what sounded like a lengthy apology, and he was looking curiously around him. Mary was just behind him, looking like she didn't quite know what to make of the whole thing. 

"Freddie, hi, I hope I'm not disturbing you –"

"No, not at all, Brian. Mary, I'm so sorry –" he went to her, arms outstretched, trying to gauge her reaction, "– so very sorry, but I completely forgot to tell you about this. Brian's here to help me plan for that choreography of mine – I did tell you about that, didn't I?"

Mary shook her head, mutely.

Freddie groaned. "Oh, of all the featherbrained dancers, I'm the worst – Mary, can you ever forgive me? It's been mayhem, this week – please don't go, dear, please stay, will you? Brian, do come in, make yourself comfortable – the record player is right there –" and with a distracted wave of his hand, and a quick promise of tea, he dashed to the minuscule kitchenette.

It was only then that he realised that he had left Mary alone with Brian, again. Not the cleverest move, or one that would help the situation, at all. Well, at least they weren't more than two steps away. He waited impatiently for the water to boil. Well, at least Brian hadn't said a single word about his dressing gown. That was something. Freddie plastered his brightest smile on his face, being careful to not show any more teeth than he absolutely had to, when he bustled in with a tray and three cups.

"Here you go, darlings. Sugar, Brian?"

"Don't mind if I do. Just one lump, then."

"Mary?" he asked, offering the sugar to her.

"No, just the tea, Freddie, please," she said. "No milk for me."

Freddie wondered at that. It wasn't how she usually took her tea. And now that he looked at her, she looked pale and drawn in on herself. Another thing that he hadn't noticed among the hustle and bustle of the week. He had to remember to ask her about it later.

For the moment, though, Freddie breathed a sigh of relief when they'd all settled down with their cups. Mary agreed to stay and listen, although when she heard the details of what they were planning, she quietly said that she didn't think she could promise to be a part of it.

"It's not that I wouldn't want to," she said, resolutely not meeting their eyes. "And I'll do anything I can to help you, but I have an even fuller schedule for next season than now. It's funny that it's the opposite of yours," she said. "But really, Freddie, this year's been mad enough already."

Sourly, Freddie wondered if that, too, had been a consciously planned thing from the management's side. But he decided that he wasn't going to waste time with unnecessary speculation.

"Oh, it's all right, of course it is," Freddie said. "But I'm very happy if you'll give us your opinion on all of this. Don't you agree, Brian?"

"Yes, of course," he nodded, looking between them, and throwing a small smile at Mary. "So did you two want to start by listening to some music? Or shall we talk? I did take a couple of records with me, as you saw, but they're just suggestions. Or things to get us thinking. Did you have something you wanted to listen to first?"

They congregated around the record player, making themselves comfortable. The afternoon sun started to gradually make its way into the room, painting the floor with yellow stripes. They were soon immersed in recording of some early Mozart concertos, talking and gently arguing, the conversation meandering amicably around the subject. Brian seemed to be getting along well with Mary; and he even made her laugh when he started playing at conducting a Beethoven piece, with exaggerated hand motions and many frowns. 

Amid the laughter, Freddie remembered something. "The Schumann! Brian, darling, I meant to have you listening to that one – one second, I'll just fetch it."

He stepped carefully over Tom, one of their cats, who was stretched out in one of the sun puddles, basking in the warmth. He lifted the hem of his robe, taking care not to disturb the cat.

Schumann was then followed by an Elgar record that Brian bashfully gushed over. Brian liked the idea of a Mozart piano concerto forming the basis of a performance, while Freddie argued for a more varied approach. They still hadn't decided anything concrete, when on a whim, Freddie put on one of his favourite Aretha Franklin records. 

Brian immediately smiled.

"Should have guessed you'd like Aretha, too! Now, tell me. What's your view on Jimi?"

A lively debate and a Led Zeppelin record followed. Listening to the familiar guitar riff of Kashmir, Freddie felt the beginnings of an idea forming.

"Brian?"

"Hmm?"

"Would it be completely crazy… what if we did some kind of a fusion?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, just listen to this song. I mean, actually _listen_ to it. What about – if we started with the Mozart? Oh, all right, you can have your Elgar if you like," he said, seeing that Brian was just about to disagree.

"But if we then went on to something else entirely? Something like this?" 

He gestured in the direction of the record player.

"Now there's an idea," Brian mused, cocking his head to one side. "I hadn't thought of that. It certainly has possibilities."

"But don't you think that –" Mary began, and then stopped when they both turned to look at her.

"What?"

Mary looked out of the window, and then bent down to cuddle the cat, clearly uncomfortable, unwilling to meet their eyes.

Freddie stepped to the record player, lifting the needle from the record to give Mary a little space.

"I don't mean it as a criticism. But if you have such a strong background music – something that's so far removed from what people are used to hearing as a basis for a ballet – won't that take their attention away from the dancing? And won't that constrict you, make great demands on what you can do in choreography?"

After that, it seemed that she was completely immersed in communicating with Tom. Freddie pursed his lips.

"I see what you mean, darling, and I think you're quite right. But, Brian, you were talking about how – how uninspired some ballet music is, the other day."

"I'm not sure I'd put it as strongly as that. I was upset when I said that," Brian said.

"No, but you both have a point. And it would mean that we'd need to plan particularly carefully. But don't you think that music and dance could also feed off each other?"

Now Brian was nodding along.

"The energy of a piece of music does guide the choreography – and I think that's the way it should be. I'm sorry, I don't mean to lecture. But maybe it could be something more, too. Oh, I don't know – it's just that sometimes, in some ballets, I have the feeling that the choreographer forces the music to say what he wants it to say, without really taking into account what the music could be. Does that make sense?"

Mary finally looked up from petting the cat's soft fur.

"Now, if you took a rock piece. And the energy of that. It could be exactly the thing that would make this project remarkable. Shake some of the dust off the rafters of the hall, don't you think?"

Mary looked unconvinced, but she didn't say anything.

"Do you mean we'd pick something like we just were listening to – like Kashmir? A bit like progressive rock? Or operatic, almost? Or should we do something like, oh, what's that other track on the same record? Houses of the Holy?" Brian asked.

"Maybe – I'm not sure, exactly –"

"Or should it be something that people would be instantly familiar with? Or not necessarily – I mean that there could be familiar elements in what we put on stage."

"Well," Freddie pursed his lips. "What I like about Kashmir is the way that same riff is carried through for so long, and it's so sustained. I think it would make it easy to work steps into it. It could evolve, perhaps... But what did you mean by familiar elements?"

"I'd actually –" Brian hesitated. "I was wondering about how we'll make the two work together. And I'm not sure if it's going to be possible to use actual Zep songs for this. Or anything recorded. But I could maybe write something of my own for this? Or use something I have from earlier? But something in that style? Would that work?"

Freddie stared.

"Would that –? Brian, you're a wonder, do you know that?"

He blushed and mumbled something unintelligible. Mary smiled.

"Not only will you play all of our music, but now you're suggesting you're going to compose it, too. That's marvellous, darling." He sighed happily.

"That's so much better than I ever imagined. But maybe it could be a little more – sweeping than that? More Aretha and less Zeppelin? Does that make sense?"

* * *

Brian went to pack away his precious records, and Mary helped Freddie carry the cups and saucers to the sink. 

"Freddie," she started. "I didn't want to say this in front of Brian. Please don't misunderstand me, now," she said, with a pleading look in her eyes. "It's just –"

"What? You can tell me anything, darling, you know that."

So he had been right. There was something that was bothering her.

She seemed to shrink further into herself.

"It's –" she took a deep breath. "I had a talk with one of the people from administration, you know, director's assistants, Mr Jarvis."

Freddie nodded. 

"He said that… he said it would be better for my future in the company if I, if I concentrated on my own tasks and didn't get involved in any extra activities. I didn't know what he meant, but as soon as you told me what you were planning… Freddie, I would love to help you, but…"

She trailed off.

Freddie felt his blood boiling at the injustice of it all. Mary, kind and gentle Mary, that they had the audacity to put her through all of that. But his anger wouldn't help her. On the contrary.

"Please don't worry about it, Mary, dear," he said. "I know how it is. And of course you have to think about your own career. I do understand that, you know. And we'll be fine. All three of us will."

But when he leaned in to press a quick kiss on Mary's cheek, she shied away.

"Freddie, I… He also said that. He said that I should remember that there are many people who would be grateful to be given the chances I have had. He said that they're in the process of reviewing everyone's contracts. And that I should…" She swallowed. "No, that's not fair. He didn't say it like that. But he said that there were some people in the company who should perhaps watch their eating as well as their behaviour."

"Oh, Mary. Oh, darling." Freddie wanted more than anything to hug Mary, to hold her close and promise her no one would ever, ever hurt her. But judging by the way she looked, any kind of touch, at that moment, was the last thing she wanted. 

"That's such a cruel thing to say. And unfounded. Complete and utter nonsense, you do know that, don't you?"

_Of course,_ he realised. _That explains the tea with no sugar and milk._

Mary looked away, sniffing a little.

"I do know that. And I won't… I promise, Freddie, I won't let it get to me. But I want you to promise you won't, either."

"Of course I won't. I promise, Mary. We'll both be fine."

_This time._

Neither of them needed to say the words out loud.

* * *

Brian picked up his jacket and his bag. Then he hesitated and turned back to Freddie.

"Actually, there's one more thing I wanted to talk to you about, Freddie."

"Yes?"

"Right. You see. The thing is. I have this friend. Roger. I think I've talked about him to you at some point."

"I think I remember the name, yes. What about him?" 

"Well. Roger and me, we met a couple of years ago. When we were both studying. We worked on this one project together. Well, anyway. He's actually the one who suggested that I should apply for the Royal Ballet, to see if I'd like working as a rehearsal pianist. See, he's also a dancer, Roger is. And the point is that I know he's been getting more and more into choreography lately. But he's at this small company – James Beach is the director? You know them?"

"Yes, of course I know them," Freddie said. "And I've been to The Beach House to see some of their shows. Of course, darling. Not bad at all, I thought, for such a small-scale thing. Very small budget, that kind of thing, I mean."

Brian swallowed, looking even more nervous, if that were possible.

"Yeah, I think they're always rather struggling with their finances. I know Roger is constantly worried about it, and he's always looking for new ways of making it work. Some other source of financing, that is. He thinks the world of Beach, though. And he's really good, Roger is. And I'm not just saying that because we're friends and all that."

Freddie frowned, tapping his lips with a finger. "So what you're saying is... What? That you think we should ask this friend of yours to be a part of this? That he'd maybe like that?"

"Do you think it could work?" Brian asked. "That way, you wouldn't maybe need to do it all by yourself. I mean you'd have another dancer to bounce ideas off, at the very least. Of course, the productions they do at The Beach House are really different from everything we do here. I know that. But they do work with things with a classical ballet anchoring, too. And Roger does have a classical background; that's why he knew about the pianist position. But, you know, I wouldn't have brought this up, but I have this feeling. I've actually thought for a while now that you two should meet. I think you might get along."

"Hmm," Freddie pursed his lips. "Do you mean he'd participate in the planning – or that he would dance in it?"

"Both, maybe," Brian shrugged. "But only if you want to. It's your decision. I could talk to him, if you like."

"I don't know – I mean, darling, would it still be ballet, if he was involved?"

"Why not? You're classically trained, after all. That won't change. And Roger has a classical background as well. Why wouldn't it be ballet, if it's just the music that changes?"

"Well, I'm not sure. If I wanted to incorporate some elements from other styles?"

"That's hardly unheard of, either, is it?"

"Perhaps, but this Roger, do you really think he'd be up to it? The discipline of it? I don't mean to be rude, darling, but –"

"No, I see what you mean. I can tell you that Roger takes his work extremely seriously. He's probably the hardest worker I know. He can be a bit... how do I put this? Abrasive... at times. He has a temper. And I can't speak for the purely technical side, of course. But I have a suspicion that you'll find that he will match your determination, at least, every step of the way."

Brian's smile was a little crooked. There was something about the situation that seemed to amuse him greatly, but it didn't look like he was planning to share whatever it was that he thought was so funny, anytime soon. Freddie sighed, a little irritated.

"Well, I don't think there's anything for it, then, except to set up a meeting and see what happens, is there? If you're so sure it would be a good idea?"

"I don't think it would hurt to try, would it?"

Freddie wasn't so sure about that. But he couldn't very well refuse Brian, could he, after everything he had already done?

"Oh, all right then," he shrugged. "Let's do that, then. Meet up with this Roger. Why not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Do come talk to me in the comments (or on Tumblr)! I'd love to hear from you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New acquaintances and some definite steps forward...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the wonderful quirkysubject for betaing (and for everything!) and for making this story so much better! 💖
> 
> Tikini, nastally: as ever, thank you so much! 💖

"No, no, no, you can't – "

There was a loud crash in the hallway. A door was slammed shut. The raised voices seemed to be coming closer, a steady stream of insults drifting in from the other side of the thin wall of the dance studio. The voice doing most of the cursing seemed to be high and light, and its fluency and volume made them pause.

"What on earth?" Brian said. "Should we – "

Just then, there was another crash, and then the voice of Mr Jarvis, one of the directors' assistants, tried to bring order to chaos. It seemed the commotion was right outside their rehearsal space, since they could hear everything clearly.

"Hey, mister! You can't just walk in here! Yes, you there! This area is reserved for dancers and for other employees of the Royal Ballet. You need to leave, right now!"

"And I'm telling you again, you fucking wanker, that I'm here for a meeting," the light voice answered. It seemed to be getting even louder as it got more irritated. "Like I told you a million times already. A planning meeting for a dance production. You know? Like the stuff you clowns are supposed to be working with? It's all been scheduled and arranged and they're waiting for me and if you bloody fuckers would give me a bleeding break, I'd have given you the details ten times over already. Fucking hell. What a shitshow."

Brian winced. "That'll be him," he said. "I told you he can be a little... I'd better go and – "

Freddie nodded. He shifted his weight slightly, lifting his right leg up from the barre and bringing it back down to the floor. He had been trying to distract himself from his jitters by stretching, half mindlessly, trying to concentrate on his turn-out instead of thinking too closely about what he was about to embark upon, and what was at stake.

One hand still on the barre, he watched as Brian got up from his piano stool and walked to the door of the rehearsal studio. But before he had the chance to open it, it was yanked open from the outside.

Revealed standing in the open doorway was an apparition with messy blond hair, incongruously wearing sunglasses indoors. He was clad in jeans and a white shirt. After a quick glance inside, its attention was diverted back away from the occupants of the rehearsal studio. It became preoccupied again with trying to come up with further inventive insults to throw at Mr Jarvis, who was standing further back in the corridor, arms raised like he would have liked to forcibly restrain the newcomer.

"See, you mush for brains? That's Brian, and that's who I'm here to meet. The pianist with all that hair. And you're Freddie Mercury, I think?" The blond head jerked quickly in Freddie's direction.

"Yeah, hi, Roger," Brian said weakly, looking like he hoped the ground would swallow him up.

Freddie was struck speechless, following the spectacle in front of him.

"See? I told you so, you miserable little fucker. Now go bother someone else for a change while the rest of us try to get some actual work done."

With that, he slammed the door in Mr Jarvis's face. Freddie wondered what the repercussions of that would be, but that was a problem for another day. The newcomer – Roger – took off his sunglasses and toed off his sneakers, leaving them in a corner of the studio. Freddie was caught staring when he noticed the shoes were silver, and glittery. Not quite what he had been expecting. Not that he could have said at that moment what he had been expecting, exactly.

Freddie tore his eyes from the glimmering footwear only to find the stranger now smiling at him. Not prepared for it in the least, particularly not after his expletive-laden entrance, the open, sunny smile threw Freddie completely off balance. He noticed that Roger had large blue eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes, and very even teeth. Freddie couldn't help being a little jealous of those. He found himself admiring the curve of Roger's nose and appreciating the contrast between his crisp white shirt, beautiful leather jacket and tousled blond hair. He looked like something right out of a fashion magazine.

Then he blushed, suddenly self-conscious and aware that he had been staring. The yellow Mickey Mouse t-shirt that he had thought looked kind of cute on him suddenly seemed incredibly childish and silly, absolutely the wrong thing to wear in front of this well put together newcomer. Freddie was sure that his legwarmers had at that point pooled around his ankles in ugly, unseemly clumps, and he wasn't sure that his favourite pair of black dance tights didn't actually have a hole or two in them. He felt frumpy and awkward. He put his hand over his mouth, hoping to hide his teeth, at least, from view.

"Um, so," Brian coughed, coming forward when it seemed that they had reached a standstill. "Freddie, meet Roger. And Roger, as you already worked out, this is Freddie. I hoped we could talk a little, today, see what we could come up with."

"Oh, absolutely, mate," Roger said, in that light voice of his. Now his tone was friendly and pleasant, a complete contrast from just a moment ago. Freddie didn't know what to make of him. Cautiously, he raised his eyes again. 

"I'm really looking forward to this. It's a real pleasure to see what comes of this. Actually," he said to Freddie, "I think I saw you in a Jerome Robbins piece, a couple of months ago. You were brilliant in that. Captured the audience, sort of thing."

"Oh?" Freddie said, perking up. "Well, thank you. That was quite a lot of fun, at least," he grinned, remembering the sheer joy of the Robbins choreography.

"In fact I… I loved doing that, really. I mean, contemporary ballet. Although it wasn't exactly… well, but I meant to say, I've seen some of your work, too. Very… different," he said, politely, still not sure of whether the newcomer was hostile or not.

Roger barked a surprised little laugh. "Well, that's definitely one way of putting it. Different. I'll take it as a compliment." His smile turned a little crooked, and Freddie felt his cheeks heating up.

"But I don't know if Brian told you," Roger went on, "I have a ballet background too. Before I switched over to modern. So I think we could definitely get this to work. And Brian tells me that despite all your Nutcracker antics, you've been known to do some modern as well, not just the Balanchine stuff."

He shrugged off his jacket, perching on the edge of a chair near the piano.

"I don't mean that we can do exactly the same things, or anything. But it could be interesting to try some stuff out. Don't you think?"

Freddie nodded, mesmerised by the blond stranger.

"Brian didn't actually tell me all that much. Just that you're working on a production and that there's a chance we might do something together. Which I'm really hoping we can, by the way. So what did you have in mind?"

Freddie bit his lip, thinking, all the while trying to hide his teeth behind his hand.

"Well," he began. "You see, the thing is, I have the chance to do a choreography and I'm not sure I want it to be a solo. Brian thought we might have some sort of… I don't know what you were thinking exactly, darling," he said, looking at Brian, hoping for some help.

"Oh, I don't know, really. It's just that I think we've all three been looking for something like this," Brian said. "Freddie, you have been looking for something new, don't try to tell me otherwise. And Roger, I know you've been chomping at the bit for ages, wanting to do something a bit bigger, on a larger scale and bigger scene. Me, I'd love to dip my toe into planning the music. Performing it, too. So now that Freddie has the chance to make a project of his own, why don't we try to combine our things?"

"Hmm," Roger said, swinging one foot absent-mindedly. "It's true that I've done a bit of choreo work. And naturally I'm drooling over the space and resources you have here," he said, looking up at Freddie through his eyelashes.

 _I think I'm drooling here for another reason entirely,_ Freddie thought wryly.

"And I've kind of been thinking about the – well, the intersection of modern ballet and contemporary dance for a long while," Roger went on. "Is that something that would interest you? The edge, or the border between the two?"

"Well, absolutely it would," Freddie said. "That's actually, it's not all that far from what I've been looking for. But do you mean that we would be combining our styles, then, to some degree? Or our two languages of dance, as it were?"

"Would you be up for that?" Roger asked, smiling cheekily, the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth.

Freddie found himself blushing again. This was getting rapidly out of hand. But, then again, he really didn't want to let go of the chance to get to know this fascinating, beautiful man better. He steeled himself, meeting Roger's eyes firmly. Or as much so as possible.

"Of course. How about..." He eyed Roger's slim but muscled frame again, imagining him on the stage. "How would it sound like if at the beginning of the piece, we'd be quite far apart from each other in terms of style, and then it would evolve, get closer – merge, perhaps, by the end of it?"

"Why not," Roger mused. "Sounds good. That way it would be a pretty organic process. Yeah, I like it."

"And how would you feel if..." Freddie hesitated. Would Roger think he was being childish, if he said it out loud?

"I mean, we have kind of been thinking about a number that would combine classical music with some rock. Me and Brian, we talked about that. Do you think..."

"But that's precisely what I've been trying to say for years, that that's what we should do in dance!" Roger burst out. "That would be brilliant! Can we?"

Brian cleared his throat, straightening himself up from his slight slouch.

"I'd definitely love that kind of a challenge," he said.

Roger was just on the verge of saying something when they were suddenly interrupted by the sound of the door of the rehearsal studio opening. Startled, all three of them turned towards the door, only to see the head of the assistant director peeking in. 

"Is everything all right here?" Mr Sheffield asked. "I heard there was some kind of trouble. I was asked to come and sort it out."

"No, no trouble, sir," Brian said hastily. "We're very sorry to trouble you. There was just a small misunderstanding about scheduling, really. It's all sorted out. And we were just in the middle of a planning meeting here. Is that all right with you, sir?"

Sheffield looked around the studio, suspiciously, honing in on the unfamiliar sight of Roger.

"It's for my project," Freddie said, meekly. "The new initiatives choreography? I did book the studio at the front office. Everything should be in order. I invited Roger here," he said, not entirely truthfully, but unwilling to let Brian bear all of the responsibility for this. He indicated Roger, who had stood up, and had his hands on his hips.

"Roger will be a guest artist in my work," Freddie added.

"Well then," Sheffield said, sniffing. "I suppose it's all in order. But don't forget, Mercury, that you need to fill in the correct forms for your guest –" he cast a meaningful look at Roger "– to be properly recognised as working here temporarily. Pay and all that. And you need to present a plan for the board by next week. A detailed plan, mind you."

"Yes, of course," Freddie nodded. "I'll do that, sir."

Thankfully, that seemed to be enough for Sheffield for the time being. With a final suspicious glance at them, he retreated, letting the door close behind him.

There was a short silence. Freddie rolled his eyes. Then Roger laughed.

"Well," he said. "It looks like we're really doing this thing, then? What was it you were saying about the music, Brian?"

* * *

A short while later, when they were all huddled together by the piano, Brian playing a couple of bars of something, and then switching to something else, trying to capture the right feeling, Roger finally nudged Freddie softly in the side.

"Come on, then. I think we need to try some things out right now. There's only so much we can do by just talking."

Freddie let himself be dragged upright. They stood, facing the mirror. Freddie marvelled at the way he and Roger looked together, standing side by side. They were practically of an equal height; Roger was perhaps a bit taller. But it could be it that was mostly his hair. And perhaps he looked a bit more athletic than Freddie did. But all in all, the similarity between them was remarkable. Just as striking was the contrast between their colourings; Roger's blond hair and blue eyes were almost like a negative of his own dark hair and dark eyes. But Roger's light colours were still warm and bright. It was a little bit like standing next to the sun, Freddie thought, standing next to Roger. He was basking in his warmth and dazzled by his brightness.

Then he shook his head a little, trying to stop wool-gathering.

If you looked at that contrast from a choreographer's point of view – or as a stage designer would do – it was quite extraordinary, actually.

"Do you know," he said, "we could have you wearing black and me wearing white – do you see? For the contrast?"

Roger looked in the mirror, eyes taking them both in, considering. "That way we could..." he began slowly. "You know, if we're all about presenting two different... polarities, maybe? Black and white, and ballet and contemporary? And them meeting and getting influenced by each other? The costumes might reinforce that."

"You mean that it would all feed into the same central idea?"

"Don't you think? Now, for the movement... I was thinking, if you take that part of the stage first..."

He touched Freddie's upper arm lightly, and indicated to his left. Then he started to walk through a couple of easy steps. Freddie copied him. And then, without speaking, they simply did them again, but this time together. Moving in unison, they turned to look at each other in surprise at the end.

Roger grinned. "At this pace, we'll have an entire work done in record time."

Freddie quirked his eyebrow at him.

"So, darling, how about this?"

Roger looked taken aback by the endearment, but didn't comment.

Freddie linked a couple of _tendus_ together in his turn, ending with a low _développé à la séconde._ Roger quickly caught on, and then they were moving as one again.

"This is fun, you know," Roger said. "Now, how about – if we do that again, and then we change it up a little...?"

They ended up trying out different step combinations for a long while. They didn't dance full out, since Roger was in his jeans and bare feet (he had ditched his socks not long after they started trying things out), but Freddie enjoyed moving together with him, and perhaps seeing something new starting to form, immensely. Freddie admitted to himself that maybe he also enjoyed the way Roger's legs and arse looked in his tight jeans. Roger didn't seem to mind the attention, although Freddie decided that he would definitely act more like a professional in the future. 

At some point, Brian started playing with them, not trying particularly to echo their movements, but just trying out different styles, tempi and sounds.

"Yes, that –" Freddie cried out at one snatch of melody.

"The Schumann, again? _Ghost Variations?_ I'll make a note," Brian called from behind the piano.

If he had stopped to think about it, Freddie might have wondered at the way his usual shyness in the presence of unfamiliar people just hadn't made an appearance the entire time Roger was there. It was incredibly easy to talk to him. In fact, Freddie only remembered ever being this much at ease at once with only a handful of people. Brian was one of them, of course. And Mary. But Freddie relished Roger's attention on him, and he was waiting eagerly for a chance to hear his opinion on everything – absolutely anything between heaven and earth.

"I think we got quite far today, actually," Roger said, coming to a halt and facing Freddie straight on. "Oh, but before I forget, one thing that I'd really want to include in this..."

He turned slightly, so he could take Brian in, too.

"We have this totally amazingly good lighting designer and scenographer at our company. At Miami's."

"Miami's?" Freddie echoed.

"Oh, right," Roger said. "You haven't heard that one? That's what we call him. Mr Beach, that is. My boss. I mean, with that surname? It was kind of inevitable."

Freddie smiled a little. From what he had seen of Mr Beach at different dance performances over the years, he hadn't struck him as someone with much of a sense of humour, or as someone who would allow his subordinates to call him by a nickname. But perhaps appearances were deceiving. Roger certainly sounded as though the atmosphere at Beach's company was much more relaxed than what he was used to.

"Yes, so," Roger continued. "John, that's his name. I'd really appreciate it if he could be involved in this. If we could have him do the scenography stuff."

"Well, I don't know," Freddie said. "I'd have to negotiate with the higher-ups, and I'm not sure what they will say to that."

"But wasn't the deal that you could also use guests?" Brian asked from behind the piano.

"Yes, they did, but they did mean dancers, I think. But if you think it would make a real difference, I could ask about it."

"I do," Roger said. "Think so, I mean. I'm halfway convinced that John's an actual magician," he said, with a laugh. "You know, with the way money is always scarce in our productions, he's often the only one working on those things, and so he'll end up taking care of actually getting the lighting rigged up and working, too. I think he started out as an electrical engineer, but he has a really fantastic eye for colour and space. He does these –"

His eyes held a faraway look, and he gestured with one hand.

" – it's the difference between something conventional, something you've seen a million times before, and something that will totally blow you away, leave you wondering how something was possible at all. Like in this one production that we did, last year, where he was able to somehow make it look like our small, poky stage was actually a scene from Ancient Rome – you know? Pillars and things – like there were hills and stuff, a landscape – and all just basically done with lighting. Just different kinds of lights! And with absolutely zero money. I still don't know how he did it. I did ask, but he wasn't telling. Not that I understand shit about the technical side of it anyway," he added with a shrug.

"My point is that, no offense, guys, but some of the stage design you have here at the Royal Ballet, it's really not all that inspired. And if we have this absolutely great piece – and it's going to be that – and then it falls flat because the scenographer couldn't be bothered? I don't want that."

Freddie was entranced. "Well then, let's do that. Can you ask – John, was it? I'll figure out how to put it to the board of directors. We'll make it work somehow."

"You should maybe warn this John that he might have a bit of a tough time of it. I know some of the stage department guys won't be happy to have someone playing in their sandbox," Brian said.

Roger's smile was almost feral this time.

"Oh, John's more than well equipped to handle that kind of stuff. In fact, I'm rather looking forward to it. But I'll tell him. Thank you."

"And speaking of the black and white theme, I know a person here at the costume department who I think would be just right for this," Freddie said. "Unless you have someone else in mind?" he asked, politely.

"You mean Phoebe?" Brian interjected. "He'd be absolutely great! And I'm sure he'd love to work on this."

Roger shrugged.

"Seems like you've got it all figured out. It sounds fine to me."

With a final dazzling smile, and a promise to get back in touch soon and plan out schedules for the rehearsals, Roger tied up the shoelaces of his glittering sneakers and went on his way.

* * *

"Well?" Brian said quietly, looking at Freddie with a knowing smile, with his arms crossed. 

Roger's footsteps had just faded from earshot, but Freddie was still arrested, staring into the direction that he had disappeared into.

"I – he's quite – isn't he?"

"Quite what?" Brian laughed.

"Oh, stop that. You know what I mean."

"I suppose I do. You liked him, didn't you?"

Freddie let out a long exhale. "I did, dear. Although I'm not sure what he made of me."

"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that. I got the impression that the feeling was completely mutual. The project's going to be good, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so," Freddie said, finally smiling properly, without thinking about his teeth.

Suddenly the future seemed filled with possibility, the long hours of rehearsal ahead of them full of new discoveries and excitement. Somewhere between Roger's startling entrance and trying out steps with him, the entire season ahead of him had become something that he was looking forward to impatiently already.

And he was left pondering something that Roger had said, as well. _Miami,_ Freddie mused. _I wonder what he's like. And what it's like working for him._

Beside him, Brian clapped a careful hand on his shoulder. 

"Come on, Freddie, we have another rehearsal to get to. Back to reality, right? For a while, anyway?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> The Jerome Robbins choreography that Roger and Freddie are talking about might have been, for example, _The Concert (Or, The Perils of Everybody)._ [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4EVQ0GVTIJo) is a small excerpt!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstage adventures, more meetings, daring choreography ideas and a lot of (possibly unnecessary) pining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for having taken so long to update this! Life and things happened… 
> 
> Thank you so much, quirkysubject, for the beta and for saving the chapter (and the whole story) from disaster – 💖  
> All remaining mistakes are my own, of course! 
> 
> And thanks nastally for keeping asking me about this, and for all the help with terminology and names!
> 
> Everyone who's read this and everyone who's left me a comment or a kudos, thank you, you're the best 💗

Roger hopped lightly down the steps from the front door of his flat and turned left, into the road. In fact, you could have said that he was almost skipping as he went. His heart felt lighter than he remembered it being for a very long time. For once, the future looked bright. After having spent what felt like the whole of his life as a professional dancer struggling with productions that never quite took off, never quite reached their full potential, he wondered if the tide was now finally turning. He let himself imagine it for a moment.

At Miami's company, even though they were all dedicated and believed in their art and worked hard, ridiculously so, everything still always seemed to fall a little flat – maybe it was that there just never was any money for anything. Miami did the best he could, but even he couldn't conjure up financing from thin air. There was never any money for proper scenography or good costumes, and their rehearsal periods were always cut a little too short. John was an absolute magician and performed small (or not so small) miracles on a daily basis, working with a non-existent budget and fiddly, unreliable equipment, but Roger knew there was so much more that John was capable of. That they all were capable of. 

And now, with this project that his old school friend Brian had dropped in his lap all of a sudden, unasked for and unexpected, now it seemed as though the stars had aligned at long last. Okay, so they would still be working on a shoestring budget, and so many things were as yet undecided and unsure, but the important thing was, they were going to have the chance to rehearse and perform with the machinery of the Royal Ballet behind them. That gave Roger hope of a kind that had been in short supply lately.

He did, then, feel a twinge of conscience for having lost his temper like that and shouted at that – manager? Director? Assistant? Bigwig? Whatever he was; they didn't actually exchange calling cards – but something about the man had rubbed him absolutely the wrong way. Right from the moment that guy had stopped him in the corridor, asking him where he was headed, in what Roger considered to be a snooty and unpleasant manner. If he'd just given him a chance to explain himself, but no. He'd just looked down his nose at him right away, assuming he was someone beneath his notice, someone out of place and needing to be removed right away. It was exactly the type of thing that Roger had been fearing he'd have to deal with at the Royal Ballet. That's probably why he had been gearing up for a fight right when he opened the door to the place, really. But it was a close call that he hadn't been thrown out of there altogether. 

However, he wasn't going to let that weigh him down. Not even though Miami had specifically asked him to play nice and not upset anyone.

"I know you're quick to fly off the handle, Roger. And it's one of the reasons why we all love you so much," Miami had said, his tone dry as ever. "But please, just this once, do consider that the Royal Ballet could cause us some real difficulties if you antagonise them. Just... Try to keep it together while you're there, will you?"

And then he had gone and done just the opposite the moment he set foot inside the door. He knew that Miami was just as thrilled as he was with the possibility of actually making this work – after all, any success that Roger had couldn't help but reflect favourably on the Beach House, too. But he knew the risks and the financial realities only too well. Everything that could go wrong in such a project. As did Roger, but he was determined not to let it get him down.

Still. That Freddie person, though. That was a surprise. He had liked him. A lot, actually. So much more than he would have thought possible. Not that he'd thought that a friend of Brian's was a hopeless case anyway, but from Brian's description, he hadn't been expecting _that_. Brian hadn't said anything about how beautiful Freddie was. How was that even possible? What was Brian thinking about, anyway? Why hadn't he _told_ him how incredible Freddie looked? Given him some kind of warning beforehand, for crying out loud?

Freddie had had deep, dark eyes that Roger wanted to see again. He wanted to look into their depths and lose himself in them. He had had high, sharp cheekbones, full lips and an expressive mouth. All those teeth, of course, but that just made his smile even more fascinating, more unique, more _him_. The Mickey Mouse t-shirt that had looked incredibly cute on him, and the legs. Oh, the legs. Had he mentioned the legs? They went on for _days_. Long and slim and perfectly shaped. Wonderful turn-out and lovely ankles. Perfect in every way. Roger realised he had probably been ogling Freddie's legs for much of the time he had spent in the rehearsal studio. He blushed a bit as the thought came to him, hoping fervently that Freddie hadn't noticed. Oh well, too late to do anything about it now. But Freddie's hair. The texture of those dark strands. How he wanted to run his fingers through it and see how Freddie would react if he – 

He came to an abrupt halt, both in his thoughts and in reality. He came to stand just on the edge of the curb, trying not to be in the way of others. The wind from the cars passing by in the street buffeted him, but it also helped him to come back to himself. _Now hold on just a minute here,_ he told himself sternly. He crossed his arms where he stood. _You sound like a lovesick teenager, he scolded himself. What are you, thirteen? Hormones raging? Out of control? Get a grip. So the guy is hot. Deal with it. You just met him. You have no idea who he's dating or isn't, or whether he even would be interested in you at all. Maybe he's only into girls. So stop it. You're going to be cool and collected and professional about it. You're going to be working in close quarters with him, and you can't go flaking out like that after meeting him once._

He shook his head, adjusting his sunglasses, and went on his way. If he was dreaming of long legs and dark eyes all the way to Covent Garden, he wasn't going to admit it to himself.

* * *

John was leaning on the wall of a nondescript office building, eyes hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, arms crossed and one heel tapping an impatient beat on the ground. As Roger wove his way through the early afternoon crowd, he observed him covertly. 

They had, of course, worked together numerous times at Miami's. At their small operation, everyone learned to work with everyone else, and to get along. But Roger felt that he didn't really know John all that well, for all that. But he was secretly hoping that working with John like this, in this new environment, would mean making an actual friend of him. He wasn't sure if John agreed, though. Before he had the chance to sort out his thoughts any further, John turned to look at him. 

"There you are," John said. His eyes were unreadable where they were hidden by the dark glasses. "Finally."

Roger shrugged, taking off his own sunglasses and blinking in the bright sun.

"I'm not that badly late, am I?"

John looked down and cleared his throat. "Well, I suppose not. But I want to get there on time. Get the lay of the land. Sniff out any potential trouble before it becomes an actual problem."

"Easy, boy," Roger said, with a grin. At least John seemed to be as eager about the project as he was. "It'll be grand. Trust me. You'll see."

John cracked a cautious smile at that. "Well, let's go then. Find our fortunes, and all that."

* * *

Freddie had booked a bigger rehearsal studio for them this time around. Not that they actually needed all that space, just two dancers and Brian at the piano, but he liked this studio better than all of the others. It was airy and cool, and plenty of light filtered in from the big windows near the high ceiling. The floor was worn but familiar, and its grip was good. So far, the only noise in the big room was the faint clanking from the radiators lining the far wall, down beneath the double barre circling the entire space.

Roger's lighting and scenography person – John, Freddie recalled – was also expected to attend the rehearsal. And Phoebe might look in too, at some point. Freddie sighed. He was due to present his plan (and, most importantly, a detailed outline of the costs it would entail for the Royal Ballet) to the board of directors tomorrow, and he was deeply unsure of how the idea of bringing in a guest scenographer would be received. Perhaps he could convince them by stressing that the two of them, Roger and John, were really the only personnel he would be needing. With only two dancers, and with Brian taking over so much of the music planning duties, and Phoebe on board, it would hardly be the most expensive production the company would be putting on in the autumn, would it? But his plan still needed some work. Luckily, Phoebe had agreed to check all his numbers, and Mary had promised to act as a test audience later that evening. He was going to try presenting his ideas to her tonight, and maybe then he wouldn't be as nervous tomorrow in front of the board.

Freddie turned his head when he heard the door opening. Roger walked in, looking just as gorgeous as he had done the other day. Freddie had had his doubts, in the meanwhile: he was sure he must have exaggerated the size or the brightness of Roger's blue eyes, or misremembered the set of his slim but strong shoulders, or the delightful curve of his backside. But no, nothing of the kind. If anything, as he was standing there in front of him in all his vibrant glory, Roger was even more beautiful in person than in the picture in Freddie's mind.

An unfamiliar young man followed along in Roger's wake. This must be John, then. He looked to be no older than Freddie. He had long, wavy light brown hair and clear, grey-green eyes that surveyed everything around them calmly. Freddie instantly liked his looks, too: he seemed like someone that would not be easily fazed, or easily swayed from his opinions. They would need that.

"Hello again, Freddie," Roger said. "I see we're in the right place, in any case! It's so good to see you again."

This time, Roger was wearing a stripy blue-and-white shirt with his jeans. Freddie absently wondered if he dyed his hair; could that bright blond colour be real? But it suited him brilliantly; he looked all the more edgy and with it.

Freddie had taken extra care with his appearance, too, making sure everything was as immaculate as possible. He knew that he'd be sweaty and dishevelled as soon as they started working anyway, but he didn't want a repeat of the last time's embarrassment and awkwardness. His practice t-shirt was sparkling white and he had double-checked that his tights were whole and that they sat right. He had foregone his customary legwarmers, but indulged in taking a completely new pair of slippers into use. 

Roger shuffled his legs, and Freddie became aware that he was probably staring. 

"Is there a dressing room I could use, somewhere near?" Roger asked. He shifted the rucksack he had slung over his shoulder.

"Oh, of course, dear. I'm so sorry," Freddie said, blushing. So much for trying to appear cool and collected, then. "I'll show you right away."

He turned to John. "Is that all right with you? John, wasn't it? I mean, Brian, our pianist, should be here any minute, he's just in a rehearsal. They're notorious for running overtime."

"It's not a problem at all," John said in a pleasant, quiet voice. "I'll just wait here for you. Work on some ideas of my own in the meantime, perhaps."

Freddie smiled, distractedly, feeling faintly guilty for leaving him alone in an unfamiliar place all of a sudden. But he couldn't help being dragged away and seeing to Roger's needs, first. He really should have arranged it all better, he thought, with a final worried glance at John, before hurrying away.

* * *

"It's not far away, really," Freddie said to Roger, apologetically, after the third staircase. "It's just all these stairs that make it seem like a bit of an undertaking. And this is the easiest way to remember, I think. We're almost there, just turn left there –"

Behind him, Roger hummed. "Do people often get lost here? Try to find their way to the stage but take the wrong turn and are never heard from again?"

Freddie was startled into a laugh. "Yes, I suppose so," he joked. "There are tribes of lost choir members wandering around in the undercroft, forever trying to find their way back to the light."

"Should I be afraid of them, or something?"

"Well, no, not unless you break the sacred rules of the Opera House. Although you'll need to give me a moment to make them up," Freddie said. Roger outright giggled at that. Freddie smiled at the sound.

"So here we are," Freddie said, giving himself a small mental shake. He indicated a row of identical doors in a bland corridor. "These are the men's dressing rooms. The women's are on the other side of that wall." He waved his hand in approximately the right direction. 

"You can use whichever of these you like, wherever there's room. I often use this one," Freddie said, opening the nearest door. "It's a bit bigger than the other ones."

Roger followed him in. For once, there was no one else in the room; Freddie supposed that most of his colleagues were already in their afternoon rehearsals. Without any further ado, Roger laid his rucksack down on the nearest bench. He shucked his shirt quickly off and his jeans were halfway down his legs before Freddie realised that he was gawking at him. Again. His cheeks felt warm. The only thing to do, he decided, was to beat a hasty retreat.

"Um," he cleared his throat. Roger turned to him, surprised, quirking an eyebrow.

"I'll just go and, um. I'll wait for you outside," he managed. And then he berated himself for sounding so inane. He was making a mountain out of a molehill. Dancers changed clothes in shared spaces all the time. They all did it. But there was a bit of an etiquette about it; for one thing, staring was one thing that just wasn't done. And Freddie didn't really know Roger yet, and here he was making him uncomfortable. Maybe there would come a day when this incident wouldn't even be worth mentioning, but for now, he despaired. 

"Just give me a minute," Roger said in that light voice of his, reaching in his bag to pull out a dance belt and a pair of tights. "I'll be right with you."

"Yes, of course. And, well, it's just, I forgot to say that you should take all of your things with you upstairs when you're done. Things go missing here," Freddie said, trying to look anywhere but at Roger. "See you in a moment."

He leaned his head against the wall outside while he waited. Really, this was getting ridiculous. He'd been alone with Roger for all of five minutes and he'd already managed to make a fool of himself. He wasn't thirteen anymore, for crying out loud. _Do try to calm down,_ he berated himself. _You're working. You need to concentrate._

* * *

Now wearing his practice clothes and dangling his shoes in one hand, Roger tried to take in everything around him, looking around with wide eyes. Freddie was leading them back to the rehearsal studio by another route than before, and despite their joking, he wasn't at all sure that he would find his way back upstairs unaided. 

It was all so very different from what he was used to back at the Beach House where everything was strictly utilitarian and cramped. Well, to be fair, things were just as cramped here, but in a different way. It was clear that the building had been in use for a long time, and renovations and new developments had left the backstage areas labyrinthine and difficult to navigate, at least for someone visiting for the first time.

He hurried to catch up with Freddie, who had stopped to wait for him at the end of the corridor.

"Now, I want you to look this way, Roger," Freddie said, pointing to the left. "That's the way to the stage."

Roger turned his head, eagerly, but the corridor looked exactly the same as all the other ones. 

"But we rarely use that one. It takes forever to get there. If you need a shortcut, you can go that way instead, look –"

Roger eyed the narrow walkway that Freddie seemed to be talking about with some suspicion. It was a tangle of cables and wires, and looked faintly alarming. 

"Yeah, I see. Not for the faint of heart, is it?"

"No, I suppose not. But needs must," Freddie said. His eyes glittered. "You want to try it?"

Roger grinned. "Lead on," he said, making an exaggerated bow in Freddie's direction, letting his shoes swing in an arc. 

It wasn't so bad, actually, he reflected, once you got used to shuffling along looking at your feet so you wouldn't trip. But it was unsettling to think of a large amount of people in a hurry, trying to use this frankly dangerous shortcut route daily. 

Eventually they found themselves back in the rehearsal studio, breathless with laughter and still giddy with adrenaline from their hare-brained trek. Roger felt slightly light-headed with Freddie's presence, and very conscious of the curious looks they had drawn to them on the way. Inside the studio, Brian and John were deep in conversation. The sight sent a wave of relief through Roger: it all seemed to be going well, then, and nothing disastrous had happened in their absence. Dark brown curls and lighter wavy hair were almost tangling together, so close had Brian and John bent their heads bent over a stack of papers spread out on a table. 

"And that's the way it's constructed, just under the proscenium arch there. Of course it's all a little old-fashioned, by now, but it still gives you quite a lot of possibilities," Brian was saying.

John frowned, a line between his eyebrows. "Yes, I see what you mean," he said. He ran a careful finger across a page, following some line or another.

Roger cleared his throat. Freddie was hovering behind him, but it didn't seem like he would contribute anything to the conversation any time soon.

"It looks like you two have got it all figured out, then? Shall we get started?"

"Oh! Yes, right," Brian said. "Didn't see the two of you there. Well, I think we're ready if you are. We were just running through some technical things here."

"Yes, let's get going," John said. "But Freddie, I wanted to ask you. Is this room here –" he pointed his chin at the room in general – "is it approximately the same size as the scene is?"

Roger looked at Freddie, questioning. Freddie pursed his lips in consideration.

"I think so," he said. "I'm not sure, I'm afraid. I can find out, if you like."

"Or I can," Brian piped in. 

"Yes, darling, thank you. If you could," Freddie said. "But I can tell you that this is where a lot of the big productions rehearse. So I should think it's not far off."

John nodded, satisfied. He retreated to a bench by one of the mirror-covered walls, and scribbled something down in his notebook. Brian walked over to the piano, starting to shuffle through his sheet music. Roger straightened the leg of his tights and grinned at Freddie when he caught his eyes on him.

"Let's get to it, then, Freddie," he said. "You know what I was thinking?"

"Not really, no," Freddie said, smiling a little bashfully.

"Hah. That's not… you remember the sequence we sort of worked out, last time? The one where we moved together?"

Freddie hummed. "You mean this one?" He checked in the mirror to make sure his steps were correctly aligned.

"Yes, that's it. But you know what would be really neat?"

"Do tell me," Freddie said, still smiling.

"We've already got the black and white theme, haven't we? And I kind of like the idea that we would do some things in unison. Right? But how about we mirrored each other? Not just did the same thing? See, if you're here, on this side –"

Roger took hold of Freddie's shoulders and turned him around to face a little to the left. He took up a position next to him, and then met Freddie's eyes in the mirror.

"Can you do the _tendus_ again?"

"Like this?" Freddie went through the steps once more. He was moving his right leg. Beside him, Roger was copying his movements, but using his left leg.

"Now your hand," Roger told Freddie.

On cue, Freddie lifted his left hand, holding his palm up, bringing it close to Roger's, so that they were almost touching. Almost, but not quite. Roger nodded. Yes, this would work. When they moved like this, they could make it look almost as though there was a mirror between them: like one of them was a reflection of the other.

"I like it," Freddie said. "But which one of us is the reflection, and which one's the original?"

Roger grinned at that. Freddie had caught on immediately, and their minds seemed to be following the exact same tracks. "I was thinking that that's what we want the audience to be wondering about. Don't you think?"

"Ah, yes," Freddie said approvingly.

* * *

"So did I understand you correctly? You want to have an actual rock band on stage?" John asked. "In addition to a piano, and maybe a string quartet? You don't want to use a recording?"

"I think so," Brian said. "If that's at all possible to pull off, that is. It'd just be me and me mates, you know. We have this small band, I sort of play the guitar, too, on the side, and… Well, anyway. I thought I'd ask the lads to help out here. I'm sure they will. It'll be something different for them, too. But, you know, I'd really like it if the whole of the music was performed live. So that there'd be a real connection between the musicians and the audience. But can we do it, do you think?"

John looked thoughtful. "I'll need to think about it. See how much space we actually have for all of that on that stage. And I'll need to familiarise myself with the sound system and the Tannoy in person, of course, and see what I can do. I'd appreciate it if you gave me fairly specific information about what instruments you'll be using and how many people there will be."

"That would be… let's see. If it all works, then it would be me, of course, the strings – four people – and then two members of the band. That's eight, all told. Isn't that what we agreed on, Freddie?"

Freddie nodded. Brian's two rock musician friends wouldn't ruin their budget, and the strings would come from the Opera House orchestra; more friends of Brian's. He had it all carefully calculated and written out, ready to be presented to the board tomorrow. 

"You don't think that's too much, John?"

"No, I wouldn't say that. But I need to think about where to put all the equipment. Maybe at the bottom of the stage? And when do we move all of it? And I need to figure out how the acoustic instruments will work in the middle of all that…"

John glanced up, distractedly, picking up his notebook again. He looked happy, and like he was off in some world of his own.

"Now Brian's done it," Roger whispered to Freddie. "Now John has a real problem to solve. It's like Christmas has come early for him."

* * *

Freddie swallowed and stared at the door of the meeting room. It looked forbidding. He had been waiting for his turn before the board of directors for what felt like an eternity. He hastily deposited the wad of papers in his hands on a chair before he accidentally crumpled them up beyond repair, trying to concentrate on breathing instead. 

Phoebe (Peter, really, but the kind soul seemed to never mind the nickname. Freddie sometimes had trouble remembering it was one) laid a careful hand on his shoulder. He'd taken the time off from his normal work in the wardrobe and agreed to come along as moral support. "You'll be fine, Freddie. We went through everything several times. They're going to love it, you'll see," he said.

"Yes," Freddie said, exhaling shakily. "That's what I'm trying to tell myself, you know. And I'm so thankful for your help. Brian's clever, but you know what they want to hear. If this succeeds, it's all your doing."

Phoebe smiled, looking pleased by Freddie's words. But he never got a chance to do anything more than to squeeze Freddie's shoulder briefly, because at that moment, the door opened and a man Freddie didn't know beckoned for him to come in. He retrieved his precious plans, squared his shoulders and walked in, leaving Phoebe to wait for him.

Once inside, Freddie realised that he didn't know even half of the people gathered behind a long table. Although, there was Mr Sheffield, of course, and Mr Jarvis was sitting next to him. Lately the two seemed inseparable. Jarvis checked his watch and adjusted his fashionable rectangular glasses, looking bored; not a good sign. Trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach, Freddie turned to look at the others: he knew Lady Baker, one of the board of governors, by sight. And there was one of the ballet masters, Mr Edwards. Freddie did like him. This looked more hopeful.

He tried to remember Mary's comforting words from the night before. "You'll do great just as long as you stop flapping with your hands like that when you talk," she had said. "Now you just look like a nervous bird," she had added, with a laugh.

Comforted by the memory and amused at the image, he cleared his throat and laid his pile of papers on the table, near to where Lady Baker was seated. _It's just another performance,_ he tried to tell himself. _No different from a night on the stage._

"Thank you for this opportunity," he began, trying to gauge his audience's mood as he spoke. He was a little proud of the fact that his voice didn't shake. Sheffield had steepled his fingers again, but his face gave nothing away. Jarvis looked on with a disapproving gaze (Freddie wasn't surprised at that), but many of the others were smiling encouragingly. He started to outline his plans, carefully trying to remember everything Phoebe and Mary had said. Apart from some shuffling, the board listened quietly. 

"And what's your budget like?" Jarvis finally asked, as Freddie fell silent.

"That's on page three of my presentation, sir," Freddie said. "I have tried to make out the estimates as closely as possible."

"One guest dancer, you say… pianist… will Miss Austin be a part of this production?"

Freddie shook his head. "She has a full schedule, sir."

Jarvis made a tutting sound and looked at his watch again. Freddie couldn't tell what that meant. Meanwhile, Sheffield was leafing through the pile of papers.

"What's this? Scenographer? What do you need one of them for, Mercury? Aren't there enough of them here?"

Freddie braced himself. Here it was. "If you look at page two, sir, you'll see that the scenographer will also be responsible for the sound and the lighting. And as I said in my presentation, his vision will be essential in defining the look of the production," he said.

"Hmm," Sheffield said, not sounding particularly convinced. "And you believe these figures will hold?"

"I hope so. They are estimates, of course, at this stage." His throat felt dry and his palms were clammy.

"And what's the name of the piece?" a voice from the other end of the table asked.

"We're thinking of calling it 'Mirror Images.' Of course, that's just a working title," Freddie said. 

"I see. Well. Does one of my esteemed colleagues have something to add?" Sheffield asked, turning away from Freddie.

"No, I think we heard all we needed to," a lugubrious-looking gentleman in a gabardine suit sitting next to Lady Baker said.

Mr Edwards nodded. "Yes, it was all extremely clear," he said.

"How about you, Jarvis?" Sheffield asked.

"That was more than enough for me," he sniffed, not even bothering to look in Freddie's direction.

"Well then. I think we're done here," Sheffield concluded. He gathered Freddie's papers up and put them all to one side. "Thank you for your presentation, Mercury. We'll let you know."

"Thank you for your time," Freddie said stiffly. Then he turned and walked out. It was a very good thing that Phoebe was waiting for him, because his knees gave out the moment the door was closed. Without Phoebe's supporting arms Freddie would have unceremoniously crumbled to the ground.

* * *

Roger had been mooching about in his poky little flat for days, waiting to hear what the judgement of Freddie's board of directors would be. He was starting to fear the worst, when Brian finally rang him with the news.

"Yes. It's all good. The plan was approved. We can go ahead with it."

Roger exhaled. "Well, finally. What took them so bloody long?"

"I've no idea. Horrible, isn't it? Leaving us all hanging like this. Well, Freddie has been a bit of a nervous wreck, really. I hear it was three votes against. That's not too bad, is it?"

"I suppose. Although I'd like to find the nay-sayers and chew them out," Roger grumbled. "Is Freddie okay?"

"Oh, I'm sure he will be. I'll tell him you asked after him."

"Ah, well, I don't know about that," Roger temporised. Was Brian laughing on the other end of the line? Better move on quickly.

"So are we still on for Thursday?"

"Absolutely. See you then," Brian confirmed.

Roger put the receiver down and in relief, did a couple of (very careful) leaps in celebration. He would see Freddie again very soon, and their project was going to become reality.

* * *

May slowly gave way to June, and the spring turned to proper summer. The weather was getting warmer and warmer, as days and then weeks went by without any rain at all. Roger basked in the sunlight, enjoying the rays slanting in the window of the ballet studio and making Freddie's hair gleam almost golden. 

The news that their plans now had official approval made them all even more eager than before to work on the choreography. At the back of the studio, Brian was happily constructing a bridge from Schumann to Mozart. Meanwhile, Roger and Freddie were trying to work out the outline of the part of the choreography where the music changed. Roger hummed appreciatively.

"Freddie? What do you think about this? If in the part when we notice each other, the mirroring part. What if it starts out cautious? Like we're not entirely sure what the other one is up to. We're testing the waters, you know?"

Freddie flashed him a close-lipped smile. Then he made a small jump towards Roger, as though trying to scare him. Roger grinned in return. 

And he wondered. Freddie definitely seemed at ease with him, and very friendly. Perhaps even a bit more than that – or was that just his imagination? They had never talked about their private lives, yet, as such, but Roger had been informed (during an idle moment of chitchat with one of Freddie's colleagues who he knew slightly from his student days) that Freddie lived with a girlfriend, and had done so for quite a while. He sighed. He should just stop thinking about Freddie in that way and get over this inconvenient crush once and for all. Roger shook his head minutely, trying to bring his thoughts back to what they were doing.

"Yes, exactly that," he said to Freddie. "But then we could progress to sort of – I don't know, showing off to each other, perhaps? Big jumps, that sort of thing?"

Freddie nodded, and pursed his lips. " _Sissonne, sissonne, jeté,_ another one, and then a turn – do you think?"

He demonstrated the steps in time to his words.

"Yes, why not," Roger said. "That would work with the electric guitar as well, wouldn't it? And then somewhere during all that, we kind of come to the conclusion that the other one isn't just a reflection, but maybe another person, and then it slows down. How's that sound like?"

It was definitely all coming together smoothly, Roger thought. But of course, they were still a long way from having a finished ballet on their hands, and anything could still happen. Particularly if he couldn't stop staring at how the muscles of Freddie's legs bunched and prepared for a high jump, and shifted again when he landed and prepared for the next movement. He's taken, he reminded himself. Stop that.

"Roger?" Freddie called. "I was wondering. We were talking about the two dancers – us, I mean – coming together, our styles of dance merging, earlier, weren't we?"

"I remember," Roger said, trying out the same jumps that Freddie had made earlier, but continuing on with another one before the turn, trying it out. 

"Could we try – how would you feel about us dancing together?"

"Aren't we already doing that?" Roger frowned.

"No, I mean, it's just this idea I had. If we danced as partners in the choreography? Maybe just for a moment?"

"Like an actual _pas de deux,_ you mean? Two male dancers?" 

Freddie looked down, seemingly suddenly fascinated by something on the floor. "It was just an idea," he muttered.

Roger mulled it over. "No, hold on, let me think about this. We'd need to figure out how it would work. You know, obviously we can't do the same kind of lifts and steps as with a girl. And I think I've only seen male partnering done as a joke on stage. But that's not what you were thinking about, is it?"

"Well, I mean, it would certainly make an impact," Freddie said. "Something memorable."

The outrageousness of it, the sheer shock value of it definitely appealed to Roger. As did the thought of getting even closer to Freddie, of course.

"It would need to be very tasteful. So that no one would get any wrong ideas," Roger said, trying the thought on for size.

"Oh, yes. It would all need to be very artistic," Freddie said, this time with an outright grin.

* * *

June went on, and the fire of the rehearsals slowly petered out. Eventually, they all went their separate ways for the summer break. It seemed like a very long and very lonely time to Roger. The sweltering hot weather was proving a little too much even for him, and he wilted in the heat. His loneliness was only broken by John surprisingly suggesting that they meet and catch up in mid-July. In the sweltering heat, Roger got to hear the latest about the goings-on in the world of lighting design. John grumbled a little about the Royal Ballet: they were dragging their heels about giving John the technical specifications that he needed for his plans. Roger shrugged; there was little he could do about it. And to his eyes, John seemed to be doing perfectly well. He suggested that perhaps John should get together with Brian; the pianist would know who to talk to, at the company. 

But that was it. A friend came to visit, for a couple of days; he flirted for a while, cautiously and half-heartedly, with a dark-haired, slender young man at a small charity do of Miami's, one night. But then he noticed that he was comparing a pair of brown eyes to another pair, darker and more fascinating in his memories, and thinking that someone else had more graceful hands, and that the teeth weren't quite right either. After that, he saw the futility of his endeavour. He knocked the rest of his glass of wine back quickly, apologised to the other and made his lonely way back home.

The difficulty was, he reflected, that as gossipy a bunch as dancers were (perhaps only musicians were worse, in that respect), it was a little difficult to actually get to know much about people. The wildest stories kept circulating, but despite all that, people kept their private affairs very much to themselves. As a whole, dancers tended to be viewed with a fair amount of suspicion. _A load of poofs,_ as Roger had heard himself and his friends described, far too many times. Usually he didn't care all that much. Inside the bubble of rehearsals and performances, whispers and pointed glances was generally as bad as it got. They were, after all, all looked down on, every last one of them, regardless of who they actually chose to sleep with or not. But there was still a certain amount of wariness in the air, and try as he might, Roger couldn't come up with a way to broach the subject with Freddie. Once they met again, that was. Whenever that was. Weeks from now. Ages. Aeons. He sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd very much like to hear what you thought!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer into autumn. And some lessons in flirting (along with arguing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: thank you so much to quirkysubject for the beta! I couldn't have done it without you! ❤️
> 
> And thank you to everyone who's read or commented – it's everything, it truly is.
> 
> I'm sorry for having taken so long to update this – hopefully the next chapter will be done a little more quickly!

"There you are!"

Freddie raised an eyebrow at the greeting. "Good to see you too, Ken," he said drily. 

"Oh, yes, yes," Ken said distractedly, giving him a quick hug. "Come sit down! Can I get you a drink?"

The coolness of the pub was a welcome relief after the hot day, heat rising in waves from the scorching pavement. He accepted a glass of something (he didn't enquire too closely into what it was, exactly. As long as it was cold, it was fine) and sat down with Ken and a couple of other dancers. The July meet-up was something of a tradition: people came and went throughout the evening, as the conversation ebbed and flowed amid laughter and cigarette smoke. No one was actually drinking all that much, but the noise level was all the more riotous for all that. There was a restless energy to the crowd that Freddie recognised well: the dancer's need to move, to stretch, to express and to _be_ in the moment.

Freddie soon found himself immersed in a discussion with Ken. The others at their table talked about a choreography that had premiered in the spring; a topic neither of them were all that invested in, since they hadn't been selected to dance in it.

Ken was one of the dancers Freddie was closest to, at the Royal Ballet. He was one of the first ones who had ever struck up a conversation with him, and Freddie remained thankful for that. He had never forgotten what a difference it had made to him, when everything around him had been unfamiliar and strange.

"How's it going, Freddie?" Ken asked. "I feel like I haven't talked with you for an age."

"Well, you know how it is. Busy end of season," Freddie said evasively.

"Come on, you. I'm not buying that. You must know I'm curious about your choreography project. How's it going?"

Freddie rolled his eyes, but he found that he didn't actually mind Ken asking all that much. It didn't feel like prying, or intrusive, like it had with some of his other colleagues. He had always been on cordial terms with Ken. Of course, it helped that they were very different as dancers and seldom competed for the same roles. Ken was the taller of the two, strong and athletic, with powerful, high jumps and a solid technique. Freddie was a good _en l'air_ dancer as well, but he was also lithe and quick on his feet, and at his best in expressive roles that needed a great deal of stage presence to carry off.

"Oh, I suppose it's going well," Freddie said. "I miss it, actually, now that we're on summer break."

"Yeah? Must be good, then. I can't say I miss working at all," Ken said, flashing a smile.

"Well, it's different, working on something where you can decide on things for yourself. And it's good to get away from all the watchful eyes, if you know what I mean."

"Don't I ever," Ken sighed. "Don't get me started. What's got into Jarvis lately, anyway? Grouchy doesn't even begin to cover it." 

Freddie sighed. "Oh, I don't know. It seems like he's made it his goal to make sure everyone's as miserable as possible. And what I do know is that he didn't want my project to get funding. But it did, despite him."

"Really? Sounds like you're not in his good books."

"Don't I know that, darling. I never have been, I don't think. Let's talk about something else, shall we?"

"Well, yes. Let's," Ken said, reaching for his drink. Then he wagged a finger in Freddie's direction. "I do want to know about your project. Don't try to distract me."

Freddie shook his head, laughter bubbling in his chest. 

"Rumour has it that there's a terribly attractive guest artist involved in it," Ken said, tilting his head to one side. 

Freddie tried to stop the blush that was spreading over his face. "Is that what they say?"

"That's definitely what they say," Ken nodded. "Come on. Any truth to the rumours? And is he good? Or just good-looking?"

Freddie felt a bit affronted on Roger's behalf. "Absolutely he's good. I mean, I wouldn't have him dancing in my project if he weren't. Actually, he's marvellous. It's great fun to have someone like that dancing with you. It makes a world of difference, you know, to have someone you can lean on like that. Professionally, I mean. Someone you can trust. Although he does look nice, too," he said, ducking his head behind his drink.

"Seems like you two have really hit it off, then," Ken said, sounding a little wistful. "Is he marvellous in other ways as well? Outside the studio?" 

"I really couldn't tell you," Freddie mumbled, looking down.

"But would you like to be able to?" Ken asked, quirking an expressive eyebrow.

Freddie moved in his seat, restlessly. "What kind of a question is that, darling? We're just working together. It's not like that at all. And I'd never dream of doing that to Mary."

"How is she, anyway? Mary?" Ken asked, looking at Freddie closely. 

"Good, good," Freddie said. "Doing well. She's got a lot of work next season. Everything's fine."

Ken looked at him for a moment more, but didn't pursue the topic further.

"I haven't even asked you," Freddie said, trying to deflect attention away from himself. "How's your work? Did you get asked to do the choreography thing?"

Now it was Ken's turn to squirm in his seat. "Yes, they asked me. But you know me, Freddie. I'm no good at that sort of thing. Making up something on my own. I told them no."

"What did they say to that?" 

"Oh, you know. Nothing I'd care to repeat," Ken waved the question away. "You're very brave, you know, to have taken it on."

Freddie hummed. "I don't think that's really it. I know how wrong it could go," he said. "But the thing is, when we're in the middle of it, it just feels _right,_ somehow. You know? It's impossible to doubt it, then. At other times, of course…" he shrugged. "But do go on."

"No, that's about it, I reckon. Anyway, it's all pretty rotten. But no matter. I'll figure something else out. I've been looking into getting work in other places. Maybe somewhere outside London. Or perhaps starting my own little company."

"Really?"

"Yes. That's what I'd like to do, actually. Once I can't dance any longer. Get into the organising part of things, arrange opportunities for others. So, you know," Ken nudged Freddie with an elbow, "if you get tired of the old Covent Garden lot someday, if you give it a couple of years, maybe I could even offer you work someplace else. I can dream, right?"

"That sounds nice, actually, dear," Freddie said, propping an elbow on the table, running through it in his mind. Work with a smaller company? What if all of his work was like the project that was consuming all of his thoughts, with the chance to try out new things and just – breathe? And to be close to – he blushed once more, trying to cut that train of thought right off. He made up his mind, there and then, to actually spend more time with Mary, instead of going around with his head in the clouds.

* * *

Of course, it wasn't all that simple. In his eagerness to make up for his traitorous thoughts and his distraction, he overdid it in the other direction. Barely a day went by after that when he didn't ask Mary to have a cup of tea with him or when he didn't ask her about her plans. Or when he didn't plan shopping trips and museum visits and nights out with her.

He hovered. There was no other word for it. At last, even Mary's patience snapped.

"Don't _do_ that, Freddie," she said. "Please give it a rest. I'm perfectly fine. You don't have to keep watching me."

"I wasn't –"

"Yes, you were. Now, please, give me a bit of space to breathe."

All in all, Freddie reflected, he couldn't wait for the rehearsals to start again. The break wasn't doing him any favours. He wondered if Roger was thinking the same; and then he shook his head resolutely, trying to think of something, anything else instead.

* * *

**September 1976**

"Oh, it's you again. Still here, then?" 

Roger stopped in his tracks as he walked along the corridor towards the rehearsal studio. He very deliberately adjusted the scarf around his neck (after the sweltering heat of the summer, the September day seemed positively chilly) and turned the collar of his coat down before turning. He found himself facing the same idiot of an administrator that had accosted him back in May. He smiled, showing all his teeth.

"So you missed me, too, didn't you," he said. "Had a good summer? Did you wish I'd been there with you?" He batted his eyelashes, just to drive the point home. 

The snooty bigwig opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, before turning on his heel and stalking away. Roger huffed. _Maybe that'll shut him up, for a little while._

It struck him when he turned the corner towards the now-familiar rehearsal space that he still didn't know who the idiot actually was. He hoped that wouldn't become a problem in the future. All intrusive thoughts disappeared, however, when he caught sight of Freddie, resplendent even with a slightly reddened nose. Freddie was shivering a little in the cold, dragging the sleeves of a stripy cardigan over his hands. 

"Roger!" Freddie's face seemed to light up when he caught sight of him. Roger felt the tightness in his chest that he hadn't even noticed ease a little. Brian waved at him from behind the piano. His familiar head of curls looked somehow even bigger than before.

Freddie came to stand before him. He was positively beaming, Roger thought. There was no other word for it. His arms ached with wanting to give Freddie a hug, but he wasn't sure if it would be favourably received, and so he made do with a smile; a real one, this time. 

"Hello again, Freddie. Are you ready to do this?" Roger asked. 

"I couldn't be more ready, darling," Freddie smiled, for once not hiding his teeth. "I've missed you – I mean." Suddenly he didn't meet Roger's eyes. Roger's heart was in his throat, but he dared not read too much into it. "Our sessions, of course. It's been too long. Come on, then." He waved Roger further into the room.

"Let's get going, shall we? What are we waiting for? You ready, Brian? Let's see what we've got so far, don't you think, darling?" 

Freddie moved into the centre of the room. Roger followed him, deposited his rucksack to one side, and took up position close to the mirror, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well then. What we agreed on, way back when, was that in the beginning I'm alone on stage. Wasn't it?" Freddie looked towards Roger, waiting for his nod of approval before continuing. 

"It goes like this," Freddie said, slowly starting to walk through the steps they had blocked out already. At some points he hesitated for a moment, checking back with Roger to make sure they remembered it the same way. He hadn't bothered to remove his cardigan, and it fluttered behind him as he moved. "And then when we get to the second part, that's when you come on stage and we slowly become aware of each other –" Roger moved with Freddie, taking his position next to him.

The music changed, Brian following their movements with a sharp eye, slowing his tempo a little when they were for a moment in danger of getting derailed. 

"And then, little by little, we start mirroring – and no one knows who is real and who isn't –"

"Or if that's even the question you should be asking," Roger interjected, following Freddie's timing in an _attitude devant_ perfectly. It was all coming back to him like they never had had done anything else. Roger found himself once again marvelling at the lovely shape of Freddie's calf, and the way moving together with him seemed to be so easy. Like they had done this all their lives.

"And we come closer to each other," Freddie continued. "Then the music changes again, we get properly into the Mozart, don't we –" 

"Absolutely!" Brian agreed, raising his voice slightly to be heard from where he was sitting behind the piano.

"We separate once more – and then when the guitar comes in, we move closer again, and then it morphs slowly into us dancing with each other and not at each other."

Roger cocked his head at what Brian was now playing. This was new; he hadn't heard this before. This had to be Brian's own composition. He smiled. He could hear how it would sound when it would be played by a rock band. He turned back to Freddie.

"And then it becomes a real _pas de deux,"_ Roger said. "Only with the obvious twist. That it's, you know, us who will be dancing as a pair."

He grinned at Freddie, scrunching his nose a little with the happiness of it all, with the thought of how outrageous it would be. "And what do you think they'll make of that?"

"Well, I think we'll certainly make an impression, darling."

"As long as they don't think we're boring?"

"Oh, never that." Freddie shuddered. 

"So we dance together, but then it starts to break down again," Freddie said. "And that's as far as we've got."

* * *

It was strange how time had seemed to have flown past, Freddie reflected, once more walking towards the rehearsal studio. After the boredom of the spring and the endless drag of the summer, the autumn months had disappeared somewhere without him noticing. There was a definite chill in the air now, and in the mornings, it felt like it took forever to warm up. And the date of the performance was quickly approaching.

From time to time, Freddie still felt deeply unsure of whether what they were doing was complete nonsense, or if an actual ballet was taking shape in their rehearsals. But the doubts only plagued him when he was alone, trying to get to sleep in the evenings, or in the middle of company class, sometimes. With the others there, the snarls and tangles in his mind seemed to ease. All of the others, of course. He very deliberately pushed all thoughts that, well, were _particularly_ concentrated on Roger from his mind, as he had done all through the rehearsal process. 

Even though it was clear that Roger was enjoying the project, they had never spoken about anything more… personal. Probably Roger just wasn't interested in him, that way, at all. Perhaps he just was straight, after all. Despite the flirting. And Freddie had probably misjudged that, as well. Roger was just trying to be friendly, that was all. _You need to concentrate on what is real,_ Freddie sternly admonished himself.

And there was plenty to think about that was real, after all. For example, Freddie thought, Roger and he really had very different ways of working. Whereas he was used to thinking about choreography in terms of set sequences of steps, Roger's approach was almost completely the opposite. It seemed that Roger was thinking about different fields of movement. Perhaps that was the right term. The kind of movement you were using seemed to be the most important thing, instead of the actual steps. It was interesting, and certainly afforded much more space for improvisation than Freddie was used to. Sometimes it was scary, but there was a wonderful sense of freedom in it as well. It meant that the rehearsals became a place where he could breathe freely when the realities of life in the company were pressing too close on him.

Feeling hopeful, Freddie opened the door of the studio. But then he frowned when he heard raised voices. So much for finding solace in there, then.

He found Roger and Brian at each other's throats. Or almost, anyway. Snarling at each other from a safe distance: Brian at the piano, Roger sitting on the floor, legs opened to the sides and his hands resting on the floor, stretching.

"That's the fourth time I've played that for you, now," Brian said. It sounded like he was gritting his teeth, only just keeping from snapping at Roger. "And I'm telling you again, it just doesn't work like that."

"No, but Brian, it needs more force at that point! More energy!"

"I'd love to give you that, but I can't go against the music. You simply can't play that part forte! As I've been trying to tell you. Repeatedly. Look here," Brian said. He turned on his bench and waved the score in his hands at Roger.

"If you actually put it somewhere I could see and read it, instead of just waving it around, I might be able to do that," Roger quipped, voice dry.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Brian said. He crouched down in front of Roger, and slid the sheet music closer to him on the floor.

"This bit here?" Roger pointed, flexing the toes of both his feet. "So why couldn't you change that?"

"Because it's – Roger, it's obvious that there has to be a long diminuendo here. Look, it starts on the previous page already. It continues right to the end of this section. If you change that around, it messes up the whole thing."

"Well, all right," Roger conceded. "But how about after that? Why not?"

"Here?" Brian pointed. "You can't be serious. We've been through this before. The next section starts small. It just does. It grows, but it's slow. And you can't –"

"All I'm saying," Roger said, "is that what we're doing with Freddie at that point requires the music to support us. As you know. And it's pretty and all, what you're playing, but it just won't work! Are you sure you couldn't try it?"

"I already did. Several times," Brian said. "As you heard. And it's not possible to make it work. As I said, it's a ludicrous idea that destroy the whole idea of the music and the balance of the work!"

Freddie realised that he ought to interfere before Brian worked himself up further and said something unforgivable.

"Darling? Brian?" He ventured.

Roger turned his head and lifted his upper body from the floor, changing the position of his legs. He shifted one leg straight behind him, bringing the other one slowly to the front, bending it at the knee. As always, Freddie felt his mouth go a little dry at the sight of him. He swallowed. It was a bit ridiculous. After a whole lifetime of ballet classes and shared dressing rooms, seeing someone stretch, however beautiful he was, really shouldn't have this impact on him. He tried to focus.

"Um," he said, brightly. "What's this about a problem with the music?"

"It's not a problem," Brian said moodily, slamming the score back onto the piano. "It's just Roger refusing to understand, time and time again, that you can't treat a piece of music however you like, like it's just – just something you can mould to your own purposes!"

"I'm sure we can figure something out," Freddie soothed. Roger rolled his eyes, clearly unwilling to give up.

"Is this about the transition from the adagio to the allegro again?"

Brian made a tense little noise of agreement, arms crossed.

"What a lucky guess," Freddie said, not bothering to hide the irony in his voice. They had gone over the same part of the choreography several times already; Brian and Roger held diametrically opposed opinions, and they both seemed to be completely unable to even try to see the situation from the other's point of view.

"I still think we should just change the whole thing. Keep the music as it is, but change what we're doing on stage, Roger," Freddie said.

Outraged, Roger sat up, bringing his legs in front of him and coming out of his stretch completely. "But that fucks up the whole story! We're already moving in the faster tempo there, where the allegro starts, and we just look stupid if Brian's just mooching around in the background instead of giving us a proper foundation for what we're doing!"

"Oh yes, you just go on reducing the music to a background," Brian said with a sniff.

"That's not what I –" Roger dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I'm trying to get us into synch! So we're telling the same story!"

He turned to Freddie, looking like a petulant angel, blue eyes stormy.

"And we can't stretch out the part we're doing before that indefinitely, either. Proper idiots we'd be, repeating the same two steps for five minutes there."

"Well, we'll need to change the choreography, then," Freddie said decisively. "Come up with some kind of an extension, or –"

"We've already changed it several times! Roger burst out. "It's going to ruin the tension of the moment!"

"But if it's impossible to change the music?" Freddie looked at Brian.

The pianist had reached the limit of his endurance.

"Oh, don't tell me you agree with him! As I've been trying to say, those two pieces form a whole. And you can't change it at the point where it transitions. You can't! And I won't do it!"

"But what if we –" Freddie started, trying to work out a compromise.

"No! I've had enough!" Brian snapped. "It stays like it is or else you find someone else to do the music!"

And with that, he stalked out of the studio, slamming the door behind him for good measure.

Freddie started to follow him, and then thought better of it. Perhaps Brian could cool down first a little. If he went after him now, he'd just get shouted at some more.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Freddie sighed. Mind made up, he flopped down on the floor next to Roger. "That was uncalled for, really it was."

Roger cocked his head and scooted a little closer, stretching out a leg again, this time to the side. It seemed as though his mood had shifted with Brian's departure, and now he was quietly simmering, if even that.

"Well, to be fair, I did ask Brian to play that bit about a million times," Roger admitted ruefully. "Not the best of ideas. He was a bit irritated with me already when you came in."

"You don't say," Freddie murmured. For some reason, it seemed like a good idea to mimic Roger and stretch out his left leg, so that their positions were mirrored. Freddie pursed his lips, trying to figure out a solution to the argument.

"So how about if we – I mean. When the adagio comes to a close, we're moving closer to each other, aren't we? And then we start moving away again with the allegro steps. But could we get away with getting even closer to each other at the end of the slow section, and start the allegro later?"

Roger opened his mouth to protest. Freddie lifted a hand, touching Roger's shoulder lightly.

"No, I know, dear. We've gone over the pacing and agreed it was for the best. But say if the slow movement gets more and more intense, instead of winding down?"

Roger lifted his left leg a little, placing his toes gracefully on Freddie's right thigh, near his knee. It was a light touch, but it was there. His eyes kept flicking between Freddie's hand and his eyes, as though he was asking for permission. _Is this all right? Do you want me to stop?_

Freddie swallowed. This was a completely normal thing for dancers to do, wasn't it? He was just maintaining physical contact, wasn't he? Just being comfortable in Roger's company. There was nothing strange about that, was there? He noticed that somehow, he still hadn't lifted his hand back down from Roger's shoulder. And instead of moving away, he bent the leg that Roger's foot was resting on so that they were curled up close together.

 _Is he flirting with me? I think he is. And I'm flirting back. Oh god. We are absolutely flirting, aren't we?_ The thought flitted through his treacherous mind before he could stop it. 

He cleared his throat. "So, anyway, the problem has always been that the music and the movement don't quite add up there, isn't it?"

Roger hummed, his eyes still locked on Freddie's. 

"You see, if we pushed it a little? Made it more – daring?" Freddie said, voice huskier than he liked. 

"I like the sound of that," Roger said, leaning a little closer, shifting his leg again. Now his ankle was resting on Freddie's leg.

"Just continued the same movement until the music changes, I mean? At the moment, we're not touching."

"Aren't we?" Roger asked, voice low.

To his horror, Freddie felt himself blushing. "I don't mean," he started, before deciding to abandon the sentence as a hopeless case and start again. "In the choreography, I mean."

Roger smiled.

"You're hopeless," Freddie chided. "Stop that!"

"What? I'm not doing anything," Roger protested.

"I'm sure," Freddie said. Still, somehow, he didn't move away. It felt comfortable, and it felt good, sitting almost entwined with Roger.

"Anyway," he continued. "We could come up with something to highlight that we're coming together at that point."

"I'm sure we can think of something," Roger said. Then he laughed, apparently deciding that enough was enough. He set his hand over Freddie's, squeezing it lightly. "I do get what you mean, Freddie. Insert a bit of that story at the end of it, and then the allegro would have time to grow a little more, I dunno, naturally. It sounds good."

"You think?" Freddie asked, a little surprised. 

"Yeah, yeah. That way we'd already hint at the _pas de deux_ at that point. It would also mean that you couldn't equate the rock bit straightforwardly with us dancing as a pair. Wouldn't that be a good thing?"

"I think so, darling," Freddie said. "It doesn't do to be too easy, does it?"

Roger smiled again, showing his teeth, the tip of a pink tongue just peeking out from behind them.

"I'd better go see if I can't find Brian," Freddie swallowed. "I'd better try to smooth his ruffled feathers."

"No, I'll do it," Roger sighed, moving his leg finally out of Freddie's space. "I was the one who made him so angry, after all. I'll tell him we've got a solution, that ought to cheer him up. I know where he'll be hiding. He showed me where he likes to go, the other day."

"I have a better idea. Let's go together, darling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Please do leave me a comment!
> 
> Note: Ken Testi is, of course, a real person and a part of the history of early Queen. I simply made him into a dancer and Freddie's friend here… Jarvis is completely an oc.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations, preparations. And perhaps a couple of small clouds on the horizon…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quirkysubject: thank you so, so much for the beta. This story would just not be happening without you! 💖
> 
> Everyone who's read, commented, or left kudos: thank you! You don't know just how much it means!

**October to November 1976**

"I'm sorry. Could you hold on just a moment? This won't take me a minute," Phoebe said, looking apologetically up at Freddie. 

Freddie stopped fidgeting and stood still. He smiled at Phoebe. "Oh, of course. Sorry, darling. It's just a bit itchy, is all."

Phoebe bent his head back to his work. Roger was perched on an empty equipment case wedged against the wall on the other side of Phoebe's minuscule working space in the costume department. His legs were crossed under him, and he was observing the proceedings with a great deal of enjoyment and curiosity from his spot. He only needed to remember to not lean over too enthusiastically. The case wasn't all that steady, and he didn't want to end up sprawled on the floor.

"So it's going to be a… a unitard as a base layer, is it," he asked, bringing his hands together in his lap, trying to stay as still as possible, just as Freddie was doing, but for another reason.

"Yes," Phoebe said, glancing quickly up at Roger. "I thought it would pay off to keep it as simple as possible. Of course, this is just a mock-up of the final thing, but the idea is that you will be able to concentrate on just the movement as much as possible. And then on top of that I was planning to have this. Freddie, what do you think?"

Phoebe rose up from his knees with a slight grunt. He looked at Freddie in the mirror, meeting his eyes in the reflection. 

Freddie turned his head from side to side. Roger looked in the mirror, too, as much as he could see of Freddie over Phoebe's shoulder. He could already see what Phoebe was getting at: the simple white unitard was an effective statement, but the contrast between its simple lines and the complicated shape of the jacket that Phoebe had arranged on Freddie on top of that was what made it special. And, he thought, it would make it stand out on the stage remarkably well. 

It didn't hurt that Freddie's legs and backside looked absolutely divine in it.

"I like it, Pheebs," Freddie pronounced. Both Roger and Phoebe smiled in delight at his enthusiastic tone. "And Roger? What are you planning for him?"

"Well," Phoebe said, turning to take hold of a piece of shiny white fabric from a narrow shelf overflowing with all kinds of odds and ends. "You said you wanted to mirror each other, didn't you?"

"That was the idea," Roger supplied from his seat.

"Yes. So I thought, your colours would be reversed, perhaps?"

"Black unitard, then?" Freddie asked.

"Yes, I think so. And the jacket… But I'll need to see how that works on Roger before deciding, of course," Phoebe said. "Now, Freddie, just a bit more – I wonder how it would look if a part of the jacket was made out of this fabric. I'd like to see how this looks on you. So maybe you could–?"

"Of course, yes," Freddie said, assuming his former pose, coming to a standstill so that Phoebe was able to work. Phoebe held the white fabric (was it satin, perhaps? Roger wondered) against Freddie's shoulder, looking from Freddie to the mirror and back again. Phoebe pursed his lips: the action looked strangely out of place on his pleasant, gentle face. 

"If I just pin it into place for a moment," he muttered to himself, reaching to the shelf again. He worked in silence for a while, doing something complicated, pleating and rearranging the fabric several times. Freddie bore it with remarkable patience, only saying that the feel of the garment would take some getting used to. Finally, Phoebe straightened his back and took hold of Freddie's shoulders, turning him to face the mirror again.

"Something like that, I think," Phoebe said. "You'll need to try it on again once I get started with the sewing. But can you see the shape from this?" Considerately, Phoebe moved out of the way so Roger, too, could have a proper view of the whole costume.

The addition of the shiny fabric had somehow transformed the whole outer layer. Roger could see how it would gleam and shine, entice the eye on stage. It complemented and accentuated the leotard well, Roger thought. Freddie looked doubtful, though.

"I'm not entirely sure, darling. I like the shape but – how would it look if it was black, after all?" 

Phoebe made a distressed noise. "I can make it in black, too, of course. But I had thought that Roger's jacket would be black, and yours would be white." He ran his hands over the fabric. "With similar kind of embroidery on both. Wasn't that the plan?"

"Yes, but –" Freddie turned sideways, checking the effect in the mirror. "Roger? What do you think?"

"Mm," Roger said. "I can see what you mean. Both of you." He considered for a while. "I'd vote for the white, I think. But I don't think it would be possible for you to – I don't know – make some kind of a mock-up in both colours, so we could try both of them on?"

Phoebe hummed. "Well, I can do that, of course. Or, well, let's just see what the black would look like, how about that?"

Freddie nodded his agreement, and Phoebe assisted him out of the white concoction, setting it carefully aside.

"I meant to ask you, by the way," Phoebe said, going on tiptoe to take down a bale of black fabric from another crowded shelf high on the wall, "did you already decide on a name for it?"

Roger glanced at Freddie. They hadn't been planning on revealing that part of their grand plan just yet; but this was Phoebe. His discretion could be counted on, Freddie had said. And Roger had decided to trust Freddie.

"Well, yes," Freddie said. "But it's all still hush-hush. We're going to call it 'Innuendo'."

Phoebe gasped and almost dropped the black bale. "That will definitely make an impression. You're not playing it safe, you two, are you?" he said, with a giggle that he didn't seem to be able to help. 

Roger met Freddie's eyes in the mirror, and they both burst into identical grins.

* * *

On the whole, Roger was very pleased with the way things were going. They had worked out almost all of the kinks in the choreography; only the question of how the _pas de deux_ should end remained. For some reason, it seemed they never got quite that far in their rehearsals without starting to fine-tune the preceding parts. But he wasn't worried in the slightest; the veteran of a dozen productions where large swathes of the work were still unsettled on the day of the premiere, he was ready for anything. Needing to improvise half the steps actually on the stage was in no way unfamiliar territory for him; in fact, he almost preferred that as a working method. There was a special freedom in only having a basic framework for steps constructed beforehand, leaving space for magic to happen in the performance itself. Of course, it could just as easily end up in disaster. And he thought Freddie wouldn't like that sort of an unsettled situation. 

Just two weeks remained now, and then it was time for the premiere. Roger was on his way to an important rehearsal: a delegation of administrators and board members from the company were scheduled to come and look in on their work. In many ways, this was the final hurdle: after this, they would be changing over to stage rehearsals and to fine-tuning the choreography. There was still time, but in this rehearsal, everything needed to work well for them to get a final seal of approval. Roger was slightly worried that the choreography would be too much for the Royal Ballet to set on the stage; and then where would they be? He flicked his hair back, resolving not to trouble himself too much beforehand. He knew they were going to be brilliant and – 

He was snapped out of his thoughts when he saw Freddie at the door to the studio, deep in conversation with a slender woman in a dancer's outfit: a black leotard with a scarf tied on her waist like a belt, pointe shoes and a fluffy white legwarmer drawn protectively over her right knee.

Roger hesitated, coming to a standstill. This must be Mary, then. Roger hadn't been introduced to her, and he was unsure of what to do. One of Freddie's colleagues had helpfully informed him of her existence early on. ("Of course you'll know that Freddie lives together with Mary," they had said, with a glance that looked far too knowing for Roger's taste. "She's a first soloist, very talented, great future ahead of her. Nothing should be allowed to rock that boat.")

He wasn't stupid, and of course he knew rumours abounded. He'd been around enough now to strike up a couple of tenuous discussions with a couple of company members. Exchanging a word or two in dressing rooms or in corridors, lending a towel there, borrowing a water bottle there, or accepting a plaster for a painful blister that didn't want to heal. That was the usual way of things, and he had been relieved that there seemed to be little animosity between the dancers, at least. He had been amused the first time he had heard himself referred to as Freddie's Blondie, and of course, the administration was a different kettle of fish. 

But seeing the humour in gossip was one thing. He had no intention to get seriously involved with someone who was already in a relationship. Or hurting someone else. At least that was what he kept telling himself. But Freddie himself had never mentioned anything about Mary to him; in fact, he seemed to clam up the moment someone asked him something even remotely personal. And then again, Roger couldn't exactly shut his eyes and ignore that Freddie certainly responded to his flirting. He hadn't been particularly subtle about it, either. It was as though Roger couldn't help himself, when Freddie was concerned, not with all the good intentions in the world.

But Roger couldn't very well go and ask him outright either, could he? He looked cautiously at the scene before him. Mary seemed like a very nice if extremely reserved person, from what he could see. But he couldn't jump to conclusions. And anyway, there was nothing to be done about it; Roger would just have to go on pining. Maybe after the performance he could muster up his courage and broach the subject? At the party, when everyone's defences were down? Ask Freddie what the deal with him and Mary was?

It looked almost like Mary and Freddie were in the middle of an argument. Freddie was gesturing with his hands, animatedly, while Mary had her hands crossed over her chest, protectively. It really didn't seem like they wanted an audience. But Roger walked a few steps forward nevertheless, unable to help himself.

They spoke in agitated low voices, interrupting each other, talking over each other. Roger felt faintly guilty for listening in, but neither of them seemed to have noticed his presence.

"No, of course it's all fine, Freddie," Mary was saying, turning a little away from Freddie. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't mean that –"

"Why wouldn't you be free to –" Mary sighed. "It's none of my business, Freddie," she hissed.

"Well, it's not like I wouldn't want to share everything –"

"I don't mean that!"

"I'm sorry if I –" 

"I don't want you to be sorry! What's the use of that? But I'd rather you didn't go behind my back! Do you have any idea how it feels, when people make snide comments about – about your new, new flame –"

Roger shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the sound of a door slamming somewhere further off that made Mary glance up and in his direction. She startled and immediately looked down again. Realising that he'd lost his chance of finding out what else he was being called behind his back, Roger conceded defeat and walked up to them with a tiny bit of regret and an apologetic smile. Mary shifted as he came close and pulled her hands in more tightly, hugging herself. She seemed to shrink in on herself as Roger watched. Freddie unconsciously imitated Mary's position, crossing his arms. 

"Is it time to start already?" Freddie asked, hesitantly. Roger hoped he was imagining the wary, guarded look in Freddie's eyes.

"Um. Yes," Roger said, with a small cough. "Sorry I'm interrupting. Didn't mean to do listen in." He flashed what he hoped was a friendly smile in Mary's direction. "I don't think we've met? But I've heard a lot about you," he said.

Freddie frowned, a deep groove settling in between his eyebrows. 

"Yes – yes, of course," he said, looking between the two. "Mary, this is Roger. Who I'm working with. And Roger, this is Mary. We're flatmates."

Mary nodded, a tight quick thing, in Roger's direction. "I must be going, Freddie," she said, still without looking at Roger. "Let's talk about this later."

And with that, she was gone.

* * *

The tension didn't dissipate once they got into the rehearsal studio. Roger could see that Freddie was deeply nervous. It was a major contrast to the earlier rehearsals and Roger felt unsettled: he realised he had come to rely on Freddie's enthusiasm and charisma. But today, there was a jittery quality to his movements, and he kept making small mistakes that were utterly unlike him. He started at random noises and seemed to have difficulty concentrating. 

Now that just wouldn't do. If this went on, they would both end up nervous wrecks just when they simply couldn't afford it. Roger decided that what he needed to do was to distract Freddie from whatever thoughts were going through his mind. Roger could admit to himself that he had a much easier time of it; after all, he didn't need to worry about what the managers of the Royal Ballet did or didn't think of him or his dancing. It had been made quite clear that for him, this guest appearance was just that: a one-off thing. He could always go back to Miami's afterwards and forget about this whole project if things went pear-shaped. Of course, he wasn't going to let that happen if he could help it. And what he felt for Freddie, and what Freddie might possibly feel for him – well, better not go there. Idle speculation. The bottom line was, there was much more at stake here, professionally, for Freddie. But Roger thought he could make a decent stab at making things easier for him.

"Freddie," he said, gesturing to Brian to stop playing for a while. "Sorry, Bri – just want to exchange a couple of words with Fred. Let's take it from the top again in a mo' –"

Brian sighed, but he turned his pages back to the start of the _pas de deux_ without any further comment.

Freddie had his hands on his hips, his normally so graceful feet turned inwards at an awkward angle. He looked even more nervous than before, if that was possible.

"Look, um," Roger began, not nearly as suavely as he would have hoped. "Sorry. I think we were both a little off there. Can we do this again? I think – could we try to maintain eye contact even more?"

"You think that would help?" Freddie asked, glancing at him, unsure.

Roger grinned. Now that he knew he had Freddie's attention, suddenly he knew exactly what to say. It was curious how easy it all was; how instantly he could step into a flirting mode. Regardless of whether it was wise or not. 

"You just keep your eyes on me, handsome," he all but purred, trying to push all disturbing thoughts away from him. Behind him, he could almost hear Brian's eye-roll. He pressed on regardless. 

"That's the way we'll need to do it on stage, too, you know? We're going to be completely obsessed with each other, or our characters will," he said.

"Yes, I suppose so," Freddie said. 

Roger didn't think he was imagining the slight blush on Freddie's high cheekbones. 

"So you want me to dance like you're the only thing in the world I see?" Freddie asked, taking up his beginning position on the floor. "That I only have eyes for you?" 

Now there was a small smile playing on his beautiful lips. Roger couldn't look away. That was the other thing: as easy as it was to tease Freddie, he was just as quick to tease back.

"You for me and me for you," he said, voice slightly unsteady. "Bri?" he said, not breaking eye contact with Freddie. This was – well, he was doing it all for the work. For their Innuendo. Wasn't he?

"Right you are," Brian said.

The music started off soft and slow, only gradually gathering intensity. The melodic line that was going to be played by the electric guitar started to weave itself into the texture, guiding Freddie and Roger's steps. 

And the funny thing was, Roger just had time to think, that it worked. This time, Freddie was completely focused, and just like in their preceding rehearsals, now he didn't miss a step. He was impeccable, flawless, and breathtaking in his intensity. And Roger was swept away in the same flow of feeling and of movement, until it felt as though his previous words hadn't been overly dramatic in the slightest. They were consumed by each other, and all their thoughts were on the choreography.

In fact, Roger was so focused on the steps and on where he needed to be next that he barely registered the door to the studio opening. It must have been the board members coming to watch the rehearsal, but he couldn't even turn his head to see how many of them there were. Roger was only distantly aware of a shuffle for finding seats and the scrape of chairs against the floor in the background. 

In their own private world, in the world of the dance, Roger and Freddie circled each other, came close to each other, and separated again. Their movements were challenging at first, but then, as the choreography progressed, they started to dance with each other more and more. In the background, Brian's music was building to a crescendo. 

Roger's hand graced Freddie's wrist; Freddie answered by a graceful _développé,_ bringing his other hand to touch Roger's shoulder. From then on, they danced as partners, getting closer and closer to each other. Roger thought he heard a gasp from the side of the room the first time he lifted Freddie. They had first tried the movement out as a joke of sorts, but soon they had come to the conclusion that actually, it worked. 

It was nothing new, of course, for two male dancers to dance as a pair. But most often, in ballets, it was either done as a joke of some kind, or as a side note; it was rarer to see it done in earnest, and brought to the forefront of a work. If he had had eyes for anything besides Freddie, Roger would have grinned. It was daring, and it was unexpected, and, he knew it was also brilliant. He was a tiny bit taller than Freddie, and a little more – well, muscled, there was no way around it. But it meant that it should be no problem for him to lift the lithe Freddie at the end of the choreography.

The connection between Roger and Freddie was still in place when they were nearing the end of what they had worked out so far. Roger approached Freddie, lifted him in a low jump and settled him down to the right of himself. _And now what?_

The intense look in Freddie's deep dark eyes kept Roger under its spell and didn't let go. Roger's right hand was still resting on Freddie's waist, and caught in the moment, Roger quickly stepped right into Freddie's space and, praying that Freddie would be able to follow his movement, he wrapped his arms around him, sinking down to one knee and bringing Freddie with him. To his credit, Freddie managed to look graceful even though he must have been surprised by the sudden turn of events. With his weight partly on Roger's knee, partly on his right calf that had come to rest on the floor, he somehow succeeded in bringing both his hands up to bracket Roger's face, pulling him close to him in a semblance of a kiss.

For a moment, Roger wondered if Freddie would really go through with it. Their eyes met – Freddie blinked – and he turned his head slightly, bringing Roger's face to rest next to his cheek, in a theatrical approximation of a moment of intimacy.

Brian stopped playing, and slowly, carefully, Freddie unfolded himself from his awkward position. "Well, darling," he said, "that was a bit unexpected. I think we need to work on some details on it, so that I don't end up looking like a bag of potatoes, but –"

Roger smiled at him. Freddie really was incredible, taking it all in his stride. Most dancers would have been completely thrown off, out of balance and not happy with the sudden turn of events, but not Freddie. The moment was broken when there was a scuffing noise from the side of the room, and they both turned to face their audience, only now getting a good look at them. 

There was the director – Mr Sheffield, Roger remembered – who had checked in on them on that first day. And the idiot bigwig. Of course. Roger rolled his eyes. Couldn't be anyone else, could it? And an older woman, who looked like she was probably the one who was actually in charge. The company was rounded up by two people who had the unmistakeable look of former ballet dancers – Roger thought the man looked vaguely familiar, and he thought Freddie was smiling at him slightly.

The noise, it turned out, was Mr Sheffield, who had got up from his chair. He was looking a little strange, Roger thought. His face was red, and it seemed as though he had some trouble breathing. He had stuck two fingers of one hand under the collar of his shirt, seemingly trying to loosen it. 

"Ahem," he said, succinctly, and then seemed to forget whatever it was he had wanted to say.

The man who had the look of a ballet master came to his rescue, coughing discreetly. It looked as though he was finding Mr Sheffield's discomfort a bit funny.

"That was quite something, boys," he said. "Certainly not what I – or, um, my colleagues here – were expecting."

The bigwig who Roger had taken an instant dislike to adjusted his glasses and looked like he wanted to say something. The ballet master, however, raised his eyebrows and went on.

"It looks like you've got a very strong story, and there are some very interesting details in the choreography. I'd say it's certainly going to make a splash. Don't you agree, Lady Baker?" The ballet master turned to his colleagues.

"Yes, I certainly thought so," the woman he had addressed said. She looked at Roger and Freddie; not unkindly. "A lot of promise there. A bold touch."

"But –" the bigwig blurted out. The woman, who had to be Lady Baker, turned to the bigwig in glasses, fixing him with what looked like a beady glare. Roger breathed a little easier; it looked like Lady Baker, at least, was not necessarily in the same camp as the bigwig.

After that, though, Roger and Freddie were left standing in the middle of the floor of the studio, feeling a little foolish. Lady Baker and the ballet master held a whispered conversation with the irritating bigwig that went on for some time. ("That's Mr Jarvis," Freddie muttered to Roger once it became apparent that no one was paying them any attention. "He's trouble.") Until suddenly, after a final hiss in Mr Jarvis's direction, the ballet master rose to his feet and walked round the table, coming towards Roger and Freddie. Roger felt a spike of anxiety, but he soon found that he needn't have worried: the ballet master clasped a friendly hand on both of their shoulders.

"I think that's quite enough for now. Thank you, both of you. In fact, it's my professional opinion that what you two presented to us was a very well-structured ballet, and you should be proud of yourselves. I think we'll need to retire for a bit still, to discuss certain things among ourselves, but it's looking very good. Aren't we all agreed?"

Mr Jarvis looked sullen, but said nothing. Mr Sheffield had, it seemed, recovered most of his breath, but he had fished a large polka dotted handkerchief from his pocket, and was mopping his brow. No one commented, and the ballet master went on.

"If you ask me, it's looking very good. And could I maybe talk to you two a bit later? I think I could have a couple of pointers, things that you could use in partnering. Would that be all right with you?"

"Of course, Mr Edwards," Freddie immediately said. Roger didn't recognise the name. And he wasn't immediately sure that letting a stranger in to their creative process was a brilliant idea, but a warning glance from Freddie made him hold his tongue. Apparently it was the prudent thing to do.

The scrape of chairs was more pronounced this time. Mr Jarvis was the first out of the studio door, not looking back at them once. Sheffield wasn't far behind him, still grasping the handkerchief tightly. Lady Baker followed, frowning at the men in front of her.

The last member of the group, however, the ballet mistress who hadn't said a word, smiled at them warmly when she made for the door. And before he left, Mr Edwards turned to them once more and said in a low voice, "That was absolutely brilliant, boys. I mean it. You just need a couple of technical pointers, that's all. Lady Baker and I, we'll make sure those buffoons –" he nodded his head towards the door – "won't stand in the way. I'm –"

"Coming, Leslie?" Jarvis asked from the door.

"Yes, yes, one moment," Mr Edwards said, and with a final glance at Freddie and Roger, he hurried out.

Freddie let out a long exhale.

"Well, that was a bit tense, don't you think?"

"What was that all about?" Roger asked. "There at the end?"

"Mr Edwards? We can trust him. He's one of the good ones," Freddie said.

Brian was going through his sheet music in the background, the pages rustling. "I have to agree with you there, Freddie," he called. "Leslie always has the whole company's best in his thoughts. And he's pretty brilliant at what he does, too."

"So, that was – what?" Roger asked, still feeling a little sceptical. "He's on our side, is that what you're saying?

"I think so," Freddie said. "And Lady Baker, too. In any case, we did make an impression, at the very least. Don't you think?" He flashed a smile. "I thought they'd want to discuss things and slow us down – that actually went much better than I thought. We struck them dumb, I think." 

Roger was still mulling that over when Freddie tapped a foot impatiently.

"Now, Roger, can we go over that ending again? Brian? We'll need your guitar solo music again, can you go once more?"

"Always happy to try to mimic a whole rock band on this thing," Brian piped up, a little sourly, from the piano. 

"Yes, and you're doing a fantastic job, darling," Freddie said, ignoring Brian's tone of voice. He turned back to Roger, all business again. "I didn't see that at the end coming, Roger. I'd like to be a bit better prepared, if you don't mind." He softened his words with a quick grin.

* * *

Roger had been suspicious of the idea of letting Mr Edwards – or anyone, for that matter – into their rehearsals at this stage. But he had been willing to try, and he had been pleasantly surprised. From the moment the ballet master had entered the rehearsal studio and shaken Roger's hand in greeting ("good to finally meet you. Please call me Leslie. No, no, I insist.") it had been clear that he had a real interest to help them and to give them the benefit of his own expertise.

"If you're doing lifts," Mr Edwards – Leslie – started, standing in the middle of the studio in his comfortable soft trousers and slip-on teaching shoes, "– and, by the way, might I suggest that if you do, you should try to do several? The first one will come as a surprise to the audience, and they will want to see it again. To be sure of what they actually saw," he said, with a sideways smile.

Roger found himself nodding along, agreeing with the other man immediately.

"Yes, as I was saying. In the lifts, you need to plan how you distribute your weight a little differently from the usual. I assume you're the one partnering?" Leslie asked Roger.

Roger glanced quickly at Freddie.

"We haven't actually decided... But yeah, I suppose so. Fred?"

Freddie shook his head. "Rather you than me," he said. "Leave being partnered to me, although I must say it's all new to me. I'm not exactly used to someone throwing me around, you know."

"Um, yes," Roger said. 

"Well, that sounds reasonable," Leslie agreed. "So, the important point is, Roger, you're going to need to work a bit harder than when dancing with a ballerina. Your whole way of dancing will need to become a bit more athletic. You need to put more effort into it than usual. I don't suppose you have a problem with that?"

"No, not at all. I like a bit of a challenge," Roger said.

"Good to hear. If all my dancers were like that," Leslie said, with a grin at Freddie which Roger couldn't help but think looked outright cheeky.

"But the one being partnered isn't going to be let off the hook either. You both need to work at it, so Freddie, you're not getting away so easily."

Freddie made an indeterminate noise, but didn't seem to be too offended.

"The main thing, for the both of you, is to pay attention to is the distribution of weight. And how you counteract each other's weight. You need to lean a little more forward when you lift and... Freddie, would you come here? Let's try it..."

The upshot of it all was that what had been a vague idea of an ending became, in the space of just two sessions with Leslie, a highlight of the whole choreography. Roger grudgingly admitted that you should be careful what you wish for: the ending of the _pas de deux_ became not just a bit challenging, but a true virtuoso performance. It was unlike anything he had danced before, but it also meant that would have to make sure to warm up and prepare very thoroughly for every performance to escape injury.

In the finished Innuendo, as Roger was now starting to refer to it in his mind, Roger and Freddie ended up briefly switching roles, too, after all. Roger did most of the lifts, but in keeping with their idea of mirroring, at one point, Freddie partnered, despite his initial misgivings. It was a strange experience, but Roger thought he would probably become a better partner as a whole as a result. And it worked in the choreography, and made it better: that was the important thing, at the end of the day.

* * *

They had been generously promised that they would be allowed to have several stage rehearsals. Leslie had been essential in making that happen; but without practicing in the actual space they were going to perform in, there was no way of guaranteeing that it would be possible to make both the lights and the music – and getting the instruments into place and rigged up quickly enough – work as they were supposed to do. It definitely felt like a luxury, Roger reflected, remembering too many projects where everything was up in the air five minutes before the curtain went up. 

Not here. Roger looked around with wide eyes. The stage was _huge._ Jesus. He could barely imagine what it would look like on the night, when the audience would be filled with people, with adrenaline flowing and everyone on edge with performance nerves. He couldn't help feeling a little in awe: here he was, on the stage of the Royal Opera House. No matter what happened afterwards, he would always have that memory. It felt like an achievement in itself. He turned around slowly, marvelling. He caught sight of John, looking displeased.

The electrician was crouched on his knees on the stage floor, face not just irritated but thunderous. He was cutting a strip of electrical tape; a black cross swiftly joined several others already on the floor, along with what looked like a dashed line at one point.

"John," Roger said, abandoning his contemplation and walking up to him. "How are things?"

John lifted his gaze from his work, raising an eyebrow at Roger. "I think you know the answer to that, actually," he said, his tone clipped. "Do I look like I'm having a great time?"

"Oh," Roger said. "Sorry about that. But no need to bite my head off, for all that, you know."

John looked at the floor for a long moment, before sighing and running a hand across his face. 

"Yeah, sorry. Of course not. It's just frustrating, is all."

"Anything I can do?"

"Not really, no, I don't think," John said, cutting off another piece of tape. "Not unless you can go and talk sense to that lot backstage."

"What's happened?"

"You know, under normal circumstances I'd expect to have someone helping me do this. So that I can make sure it will work, and that it will do so on the night as well. No, no, I didn't mean I want you to do it!" John looked alarmed, lifting a hand to stop Roger from crouching down on the floor next to him. "But one of the crew. In a place this size, there's plenty of people. But no. Because I'm an outsider, they'll do absolutely fuck all. Not one of them will lift a finger."

John cocked his head to the side, looking stern.

"And no, Roger, I don't want you going to Freddie either about it. It's my battle."

Roger shut his mouth with a small audible click. He had just been about to suggest that, but he could see how it would be a bad idea. While the dancers and the musicians and the administration all formed their own rather insular communities inside the company, the crew formed a further world of their own. There was nothing strange about that: it was as Roger had expected. It was the way things were usually done. Miami's place was a bit special, with its sense of camaraderie. Roger did appreciate that even more now, however much he loved the experience with Innuendo. What's more, there was very little overlap between the different groups: a dancer going to tell the stage hands what to do or not to do would not be favourably received, at all.

The stage hands tended to regard themselves as the only sensible, down-to-earth people in the whole of the company. Perhaps they weren't all that far off the mark, Roger sometimes reflected.

John had paused in his work. He was sitting back on his heels, looking like he was deep in thought.

"Actually, thank you, Rog. You've been extremely helpful, you know," he said.

"No, I don't know. What did I do?" Bemused, Roger saw that behind John, towards the back, Brian was entering the stage, trailed by a couple of other musicians.

"You reminded me that I had actually already a plan for all of this," John said. "You know, I know how to make it work, and how to make them work for me. Thank you."

John's grin was positively evil. Roger feared a little for the unsuspecting stage workers who had no idea what was going to be unleashed on them. He watched John put down the last bit of tape with what looked like immense satisfaction, and then getting up and striding purposefully towards the backstage. 

Roger sighed and turned his attention to the musicians instead.

Brian seemed to have everything pretty well under control, however. He was currently carrying some chairs on to the stage, presumably for the strings. There was someone assembling a small drumkit behind him, and Brian's guitar had already been brought to the stage. It looked like it would still take a while before everything was ready, and so Roger went over to introduce himself. He was vaguely familiar with the bass player, Tim; they shook hands amicably. The drummer was a friend of Tim's more than Brian's, it seemed. He turned out to be Australian, to have just joined the band, and was called Colin. 

In consultation with John, they had set up their instruments along the bottom of the stage. The balance of the drums with the rest of the instruments had caused John a lot of concern, but everyone was confident they had got it all figured out now. It looked good to Roger; he hoped it would sound good, too. And if it didn't, well, that's what the stage rehearsals were for, weren't they? 

Freddie walking on to the stage, wearing a stripy t-shirt and practice tights, not even the wail of the amplifiers when Brian plugged his guitar in could distract Roger from Freddie anymore.

* * *

And all of a sudden, it was time for the premiere. The atmosphere backstage was filled with nerves and adrenaline. The air felt electric. Roger checked his black ballet shoes for the fifth time and tried to concentrate on breathing deeply. He still hadn't found a way to talk with Freddie about anything other than the choreography. Their flirting went unacknowledged and unmentioned when they weren't dancing. In fact, Freddie seemed to close in on himself the more time went by. Roger worried, but he tried to tell himself that there was nothing he could do about it right now. He hoped tonight might change things. And not bring with it any echoes of other times, when the opposite had happened.

Thankfully, before he managed to lose himself in his thoughts, Phoebe stuck his head round the door and interrupted Roger's train of thought. The black jacket that Roger was going to wear on stage was carefully draped over one of Phoebe's arms. 

"You ready?" he asked softly.

"Yeah," Roger said. "As can be. Won't get any better now."

"Oh, you'll be great. I'm so looking forward to it, I can't even tell you," Phoebe said.

"You mean that?"

"Of course. I've loved seeing you dance together, you know."

"Really?" Roger felt a little better already. "Even the ending?"

"Roger, please," Phoebe said. " _Especially_ the ending. And all the lifts that the two of you do. I even thought…" he came to a halt.

"What?"

There was a glint in Phoebe's eye. "I thought that it's remarkably open-minded, that part. Trying it both ways. People should do more of that."

Roger was stunned into silence for a while. Had Phoebe just actually suggested that –? Phoebe's face was open and friendly as ever, but the corner of his mouth was definitely twitching. 

"Um," Roger said eloquently. "Don't knock it until you've tried it, that's what I say."

Phoebe's giggles turned out to be infectious.

* * *

From the corner of his eye, Freddie saw Roger coming to stand next to him, in the wings. They were going to go on stage from the same side, although Roger would be coming in later. The stage lights were blinding, hitting Freddie's eyes at a sideways angle. Everything seemed slightly surreal; time seemed to pass slower than usually, and his own breaths sounded loud and gasping, almost, in the strange no-man's-land of the side of the stage. Freddie felt Roger moving closer. He was hyperaware of all his movements, felt the warmth of his skin on one side, where their arms were almost, almost touching. 

So. Here they were, then. It felt surreal; after the excitement of the first rehearsals in the spring, and then the long summer break, and the rush of the autumn, the day had finally come. Freddie took a deep breath, vaguely registering that many of the other dancers were congregating in the wings, trying as unobtrusively as possible to secure themselves a vantage spot, somewhere to watch the performance of their new work unfold. 

The dancers of the previous number took their final bows. The curtain came down, and the dancers ran past them, keen to get into the dressing rooms and out of their costumes as quickly as possible. John, flanked by a couple of stage hands (Freddie vaguely registered that they looked very sullen as they went by) moved quickly to bring the instruments and the equipment onto the stage. Freddie could see three men moving the grand piano onto the stage from the other side of the wings. The final preparations were underway; the stage was set.

It was time. Freddie sneaked a quick, final glance at Roger on his side, and found him already looking back. Their eyes locked for a moment, bright blue and warm brown, and then it was time. Freddie stepped out, took his position, and everything but the dance vanished from around him and faded into the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Leslie Edwards](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leslie_Edwards) is a real person, a dancer and a ballet master at the Royal Ballet. Mr Jarvis is still an oc, as is Lady Baker!
> 
> Thoughts? Comments? I'd love to hear from you...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Premiere night, glitter and glamour, and trouble ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW:** The chapter contains a brief reference to disordered eating. It's a very short one, a couple of sentences, but it's still there. 
> 
> Thank you, once again, to Quirkysubject for all the help and for making this so much better! 💖
> 
> And everyone who's read, commented, or left kudos - thank you so much!

Waiting in the darkness of the stage, Freddie could feel the audience in front of him. The energy of it. Expectant, but also curious, waiting to see what would happen. There was a rustling noise, and the murmur of conversations slowly dying away. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a final moment, savouring it. Then the warmth of the spotlights began to creep on him; and then Brian played the first soft chord on the piano. It seemed to shimmer in the air. 

The stage lights came properly on, and Freddie started to move. The strains of Schumann took Freddie through the first part of the dance. Melancholy and beautiful, the music and the steps of the choreography melded into one. Roger joined him on stage, and they started to circle each other, slowly moving closer to each other. Mirroring, contrasting, meeting and getting further away from each other again. Then the Schumann shifted seamlessly into Mozart, the strings coming in and the tension between Freddie and Roger starting to build. 

Then came what was perhaps Freddie's favourite moment in the entire choreography: when Brian changed instruments and the sound of the electric guitar suddenly tore through the air. It was shocking and unexpected; it changed the whole feel of the piece, and even though Freddie had by now heard the whole thing several times, the moment still gave him shivers. But he didn't have long to reflect on that: they were quickly heading towards the first lifts of the _pas de deux,_ and he had to be perfectly concentrated for those.

There were a couple of tense beats when they almost fell out of step; moments when the trust between them wavered and almost broke. But they held it together, throughout it all. And when their eyes met, Freddie took courage from the joy in Roger's gaze.

* * *

_Maybe a tiny bit more eyeliner?_ Freddie looked at himself critically in the dressing room mirror, turning his head from side to side. He lifted the pen in his hand again and then stopped, getting lost in his thoughts. 

It was almost time to go on stage. Phoebe would be there soon with Freddie's jacket, and then he would need to move. A peal of laughter drifted his way from the other side of the busy dressing room.

Freddie wasn't sure why he'd chosen to change into his costume in a dressing room far from Roger. He'd seen him arrive at the stage door, and exchanged a cheerful greeting and a wave as Freddie was trying to unwind the scarf that had twisted itself strangely around his neck, but that was it. They'd rehearsed for the last time earlier in the day, and everything had been as usual, but something made Freddie draw back a little now and not seek out contact. Maybe it was just the performance nerves, or maybe it was something else. He felt unsure of his footing with Roger. He didn't know how Roger would react to the stress of performing, maybe that was it. But he had also had a strange, slightly unsettling feeling that Roger had been watching him more than usual lately. Had perhaps tried to engage him in discussion even more than before. Freddie wasn't sure what he was after, and most of all, he wasn't sure of what he wanted himself. And he found himself unable to address it. Maybe it was easier to just deal with it all after the premiere. 

As he reached for his eyeshadow, Freddie reflected that he envied Roger's easy way with people, and the way that he could strike up a conversation with a complete stranger with seemingly no effort. His keen interest in everything and everyone around him were beguiling, and his open smile and friendly demeanour drew people to him. Well, most people. At least those he didn't start arguing with five minutes after meeting them. Freddie couldn't help the smirk that was tugging at the edge of his lips at the thought. But Freddie wasn't the only one who had been drawn into Roger's orbit before he had even noticed what was happening.

It was almost frightening. In such a short amount of time, Roger had become incredibly important to him. Roger was like the sun: he was life, he was hope, and he was warmth. Where everything else in Freddie's life seemed lacklustre at best, impossible at worst, when Roger was there, things looked different. But Roger was also like a flame, burning bright and fierce. Who was to say he wasn't likely to burn and to scorch him, too, if he got too close?

Freddie wanted Roger. That wasn't the question. In fact, that was the easy part of the equation. But the desire wasn't something he was prepared to follow unthinkingly. He wasn't prepared to let the flame consume him, to let it wipe out everything in its path. After all, fire also destroyed.

And he wasn't sure that he liked the power that Roger had over him. And particularly when it was all in Freddie's head. There was nothing between them that would in any way warrant this kind of an obsessive focus. A couple of months of flirting was nothing. But still it seemed that as long as Roger smiled at him, there was hope and there was warmth in the world. As long as Roger was there, he could focus, he had something to look forward to, and things were on an even keel. And – he didn't want to think about it, but there it was – that included his eating. As long as he had to keep going and to be focused, he knew his eating habits would stay ordered enough, too. There was no time to turn in on himself, or to start thinking too much about certain things. It would be all right.

But the summer had thrown into relief how far gone over Roger he actually was, and again, that it had all happened almost without him noticing. And the summer, too, talking with Ken and then spending time with Mary, had brought into sharp relief just what he stood to lose.

Freddie wasn't exactly a stranger to relationships, although the schedules and commitments of a dancer's life left little space for a social life that didn't include other dancers. What he had had with Mary had been a steady rock for him for a while. Perhaps he had always known that their arrangement couldn't last forever. But he still wasn't going to throw it all away on a whim, for… what?

He would be seeing quite a lot of Roger for a week, ten days, give or take, as long as the performances lasted. But after that? But what would happen once the performances were over? When they'd simply go their separate ways, as you always did at the end of a project? Once It was over, it would all end suddenly, as though it never had been. And then there would be nothing left to connect them. This project would become just a memory among many others. Oh, he was sure that Brian would keep in touch with Roger. After all, they had been friends already before this. And there was, of course, nothing actually keeping him from doing the same. But he wouldn't. He knew that, painfully clearly. Without the project to tie them together, there was nothing that would justify keeping up any kind of close ties. And he feared the awkward silences that would follow. And however much he was tempted, however much he had enjoyed this whole process, Freddie had to remember that reality, too.

* * *

_The last_ grand jeté, _one more burst of energy, remember to follow the line of your arm with your eyes, another_ plié _and turn, adjust the line of the steps to the left, and then the final, breathless lift – that went well – and one final_ développé _to the side and turn again, and Roger's arm was there, now your knee down, stop there, fold your right hand just so –_

Freddie could feel Roger's frantic, panting breath close to his ear. They were pressed close, Freddie's fingers resting on Roger's cheek and Roger's eyelashes tickling the side of Freddie's face. Blood roared in Freddie's ears. Or maybe it was the sudden breathless silence that was deafening. The silent moment stretched on and on – until at last, from the audience, a clapping started up. It rose and grew, becoming a steady wall of applause. It broke the spell and it drowned out everything else from Freddie's mind. Roger detached himself from their embrace first, offering Freddie a playful hand to help him up. 

The applause had grown tumultuous. It went on and on, and showed no sign of abating. Freddie stood on the edge of the stage, side by side with Roger, who grinned at him before bowing once more to the audience. It looked like – Freddie blinked. Could it be? Slowly, in ripples, starting from somewhere in the front of the auditorium, and spreading out in waves, the audience was standing up. _They were getting a standing ovation._ No one could say it was a failure now. Dazed, Freddie took hold of a bunch of roses that someone thrust into his hands, acknowledging the audience once more before making his way off the stage on slightly unsteady legs. 

As soon as he was clear of the stage, he was enveloped in people talking loudly, hugging him, and slapping him on the back in their enthusiasm.

"Bloody marvellous, darling –"

"Never seen anything like it –"

"That was completely outrageous –"

"Brilliant show, Freddie –"

At some point, he was conscious of Brian having gripped him in a hug, looking as shocked as Freddie felt. Brian's hair was in Freddie's mouth, and then Sheffield was shaking his hand, saying something about great news at the box office, but Freddie couldn't concentrate. Someone shoved a champagne glass at him, and then he almost lost his grip on the glass right away after another too enthusiastic thump on the back.

It was a long time before the hubbub died down. Freddie found himself back in the dressing room, meeting his own dazed eyes in the mirror again. His makeup was smeared and his costume was starting to feel distinctly and unpleasantly sticky with sweat. 

He marvelled at Phoebe's jacket. It was amazing, in a word. The contrast of the shiny fabric and the glimmering embroidery with the simplicity of the unitard was striking. As Freddie moved a little from side to side, he was caught by wonder again by the shimmer of the silver thread that Phoebe had woven into the jacket's back and sleeves. 

Then the door opened, and Phoebe himself looked in with a wide smile on his friendly face. 

"Freddie? You decent?" he asked, coming in without waiting for Freddie to answer, moving close to him and giving him a hug. "You were brilliant, Freddie," he said. "You and Roger both. Did you hear how much they loved you? You're going to be the talk of the season. You blew everyone else out of the water. The dancers who had to go on stage after you, they were looking daggers at you."

Freddie laid his cheek down on Phoebe's shoulder for a short while, taking comfort in the other's warmth.

"But if you don't start changing out of that costume soon, it'll be completely ruined. All my hard work with that jacket. And then what will you wear for the next performance?" Phoebe scolded gently, drawing back slightly.

Oh. Right. There was going to be a next performance. They were going to get to do that again. Freddie looked in the mirror one more time. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that. It was fantastic, of course – and he couldn't wait to be close to Roger again, even though he had just spent all that time on stage with him – but it was scary, too. He felt raw, exposed; as though some protective layer on his soul had been peeled back, exposing all of his thoughts and feelings to the harsh light of reality.

Freddie sighed. "You're absolutely right, of course, Phoebe. Did you want to take the costume with you right away? It's stunning, it really is."

* * *

After a quick shower, Freddie changed into black trousers and shirt and a soft, deep red velvet jacket over it. His hair still slightly damp, Freddie made his way back into the throng of the premiere crowd, weaving a meandering path through the people gathered backstage. There was talk of relocating to the nearby restaurant, where after-performance parties usually were held, but so far, no one seemed to be in a hurry. It had been a good night, and everyone seemed to be inclined to linger and bask in the afterglow of a successful performance.

The other choreographies seemed to have gone well enough – a good night all round – but Freddie couldn't help noticing that most of the talk seemed to be of their Innuendo. He noticed, too, the many glances and lingering looks directed his way. He relished the feeling.

Freddie accepted another glass of champagne that someone pushed into his hand. Sipping carefully from it, he moved slowly through the throng, nodding at colleagues. There was Mr Beach, looking much more cheerful than Freddie had ever seen him. Freddie smiled at Mary, who was listening to a colleague explaining something enthusiastically. He spotted Ken among the throng, deep in animated conversation, his bow tie slightly askew. But Freddie didn't linger; his eyes were searching for a blond head, a particular tilt of the head, the curve of a nose. They hadn't spoken after the performance, either, and it would look strange if he wouldn't seek him out.

In the end, it was Roger's laughter that gave him away. Freddie turned, seeing Roger by a wall, with a glass in his hand (once again, they were mirroring each other, he thought giddily, before shaking his head and telling himself off). Roger was leaning close to a man who seemed vaguely familiar. Now where had he seen him before? The man was approximately of a height with Roger, with a balding head, incredibly pink jacket and trousers to match, and enormous glasses. They were larger even than Mr Jarvis's fashionable specs. 

Freddie stepped closer to them. It occurred to him that the man might be a pop star. A rather famous one, in fact. His name eluded Freddie for a moment. He smiled at the thought that their performance had elicited enough interest in the rich and the famous for this man to have come to watch them. But what was he doing talking to Roger?

"I keep telling you, it's no good if you just perform in this stuffy old mausoleum," the man was saying to Roger. What _was_ the man's name, now? Something with an E…? Elton, that was it, wasn't it? Elton John. Freddie approached them from the side, and it was clear that neither of them had seen him yet.

"You need to be on the telly! The whole country needs to see you. What you were doing up there on the stage, it's the coming thing. You mark my words, this time next year, it will be all over the place. It's precisely what people want to see, the dancing, and that sort of style that you have going on."

The man – Elton – leaned closer still, draping an arm around Roger's shoulders. Roger shifted slightly to accommodate him, but otherwise made no move in any direction. He seemed unaffected as he listened to Elton, sipping from his glass and smiling absentmindedly. Accepting the admiration simply as what was due to him, Freddie thought.

"The style, yeah," Roger echoed.

"Absolutely," Elton enthused. "You have your finger on the pulse of the moment there, you do. And now's your chance to use it to your advantage if you're clever. In fact, I'd really like to see if I can't give you some opportunities to shine."

Freddie was frozen to the spot, champagne glass all but forgotten in his hand. He looked at Roger then, really looked at him for once. The artfully distressed blond hair and the sparkle of his bright blue eyes. His beautiful face and his dancer's frame. His sand-coloured jacket with black lapels and pristine white button-up shirt which fit him so well. The faded jeans – wearing those took a bit of nerve, but it added a touch of definite star quality to him. And to top it all off, of course he had worn his sparkly tennis shoes. It was a confident, sexy look with a definite edge. Something far removed from what Freddie was wearing.

All in all, it was the look of someone who would definitely not want to be seen together with Freddie. It left Freddie feeling as frumpy as if he had been caught standing there in his old holey practice tights and dreadful t-shirt again. He tugged at the hem of his own shirt, self-consciously. He didn't have all that many alternatives to choose from, really, although he would have rather died than admitted it out loud. But the second-hand soft red jacket had been his pride and joy – a true find – or that's what he had believed, anyway, up until now. After all, it wasn't as though any famous pop stars had come up to congratulate _him_ on his performance. Just friends and colleagues, and they were obliged to say something positive, weren't they? Maybe he had been horrible, actually, and no one had had the heart to tell him that straight out. Yes, that had to be what had happened. That's the way it was. It was clear now that only Roger had succeeded that night. And that he now had the ear of those who mattered and who could make things happen. All the possibilities in the world.

And still, neither of the men in front of Freddie had noticed him. They seemed to be all but lost in their own world, Freddie thought. A world of fame and excitement and glamour that he could never aspire to. Maybe it had all been inevitable. Roger had forgotten all about him, all in the space of five minutes. All it took was the promise of greater fame and greener pastures. Well, who could blame him, really? 

"I think you should talk to Miami about it," Roger said, and Freddie whipped his head round again. "Miami's the one who takes care of all of that. Did you meet him yet?"

And Roger shook the other's hand off from his shoulder easily, still smiling. He pushed himself off from the wall and gestured for the other to follow him. To search for Mr Beach, Freddie could only surmise. To look for a bright, successful future that had no place for him.

The champagne had lost its taste.

* * *

Roger looked around him. It wasn't a bad party, as far as first-night dos went. The champagne wasn't bad and, most importantly, there was enough of it to go round. The only problem was that he still hadn't caught up with Freddie. He had managed to finally shake off both the well-wishers and the strangely persistent pop star who would just not believe Roger didn't have much to say to him. It would be great if someone like him could be persuaded to part with a goodly chunk of money and to invest in something that would guarantee Roger work in the future, of course. But other than that, Roger wasn't sure what to tell him. It would need someone like Miami to discuss things like deals and investments. At least just after a premiere, when he was still high on the adrenaline and the buzz, his brain whirring in a million directions, it was impossible to think about numbers and figures and future endeavours. In the end, he hadn't even bothered to concentrate on the pop star's words. All he wanted to do was to find Freddie and maybe – maybe finally make a move of some sort. Maybe. It was impossible to calm down, and it was impossible to concentrate.

But actually, Roger thought, maybe the pop star – Elton? – had had a point, after all. Maybe he could talk about all of it with Freddie, too? A plan had been forming somewhere in the back of his head, half-articulated, half thought out. If everything went well – as it seemed to have done tonight – well enough anyway, then maybe, just maybe he could convince Freddie to continue working with him? Maybe he could suggest a – a further collaboration to him? He wasn't ready to give Freddie up. But first, he'd have to find him and perhaps gather the courage to talk about something other than dancing. Or perhaps even suggest that they could talk somewhere else than there among the masses of people? Somewhere less crowded?

He drained the rest of the liquid in his glass, moving back towards the dressing rooms. His instinct seemed to have been the right one: there was a familiar-looking shape in the corridor, facing away from him.

"Freddie!" Roger walked closer, a happy grin on his face.

But when Freddie turned around, the smile wasn't reciprocated. In fact, if Roger wasn't mistaken, it almost looked like he was trying to hold back tears. As Roger watched, momentarily struck dumb, Freddie wrapped his arms around himself.

When the silence had gone on for too long, Roger tried to rouse himself. "What are you… what has happened?"

"What's it to you?" Freddie hissed.

Taken aback, Roger didn't know what to say.

"It's nothing to do with you," Freddie said. "Oh, and congratulations, you were a fabulous hit with the masses, it seems."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. I think you heard me. And don't you have your own fan club to get back to, back there?" Freddie nodded his head towards where the party was still in full swing. "You shouldn't waste any more of your time here. You have pop stars and celebrities and a tv career waiting for you, apparently. You should get quickly away from us dusty and old-fashioned classical dancers. Away from this – this stuffy old mausoleum." 

"Now hold on just a minute, Freddie, I –"

"No, no," Freddie said, turning his back on Roger. "No need to explain it. I quite understand."

Roger was left standing in the middle of the corridor, staring at Freddie's retreating back, the faint sounds of laughter and clinking glasses echoing in his ears. The moment when he could still have called out to Freddie disappeared, and still he stood there, at a loss for words.

 _Well, that's it, then,_ he thought. _Can't get much clearer than that. Whatever it was that Freddie had actually meant, the message was clear. No more of this. There was nothing left but to get through the remaining performances and get back to his old life as quickly as possible. Try to lick the wounds somewhere in private._ He shivered. The bubble of happiness and of possibility that he had been enveloped in burst, suddenly, quickly, disappearing as though it had never been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! Yay! Once in a blue moon! (Sorry for taking so long)
> 
> Do tell me what you thought!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold autumn days, angst and overthinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you – as ever – to Quirkysubject for the beta and for helping me out. This story wouldn't be possible without you! ❤️
> 
> And thank you, so much, to everyone who has read, commented, or left kudos! You're 💖
> 
> Do come talk to me in the comments, do!

5:05 am. 

_5:05 am?_

Roger stared at the alarm clock in disbelief. He had woken of his own accord. He blinked in the darkness of his small bedroom. He felt wide awake. Sleep had well and truly fled. Usually, after a performance, it took a long while to fall asleep, but once he managed, he slept like a rock. Not this time. Apparently. Despite all of the excitement of the premiere, the nerves and the physical exertion. Even despite the party and all of its conflicting emotions. 

He sat up with a groan, various aches making themselves felt. He shook his shoulders, trying to loosen them up a little.

Right. There was no sense in trying to get back to sleep. He could just as well get himself a cup of tea and try to sort out his confused thoughts before it was time to head out to Miami's. _Just another glamourous day in the life of a dancer,_ he thought wryly as he hobbled towards the shower, a familiar twinge in his right leg slowing his progress down.

Since he was up anyway, he might as well do some housekeeping. It tended to suffer a bit when he was busy. But since he had the time… After a perfunctory cup of tea and a quick shower, the dirty clothes got neatly sorted into piles, the sheets got changed, and the rubbish taken out. His head was still fuzzy and the world didn't seem quite focused, but he was familiar with the feeling after a performance night. It would settle down eventually, but it was still a good thing that the next show was tomorrow and not tonight. He blinked in the chilly morning air, returning quickly back inside and making himself another cup of warm tea. 

Slowly, his leg started to feel better, too. The pain subsided into a familiar background ache. Throughout the morning, he was satisfied to note that there was no thinking required. None at all. Just concentration on the tasks in front of him. Roger was sweeping up in the kitchen when the memories of the night before finally caught up with him. Valiantly he still tried to put them out of his mind and focus on cleaning. But as the clock on the wall was inching towards eight and it was time to start getting out of the flat and towards Miami's, it became impossible to put it off any longer.

What had actually happened last night? The performance had gone well. There was no doubt about that. But after? In the end, he hadn't followed Freddie after they had... What? Argued? Somehow, it didn't feel like the right word. He'd been a bit tipsy. Freddie's words had been completely unexpected, and they had felt like a blow to the solar plexus, but he couldn't even remember what it was that he'd said, exactly. But he remembered the tone of Freddie's voice well enough. And the look in his eyes. It had sounded like Freddie wanted nothing more than for him to go away, to back off. And Roger had felt miserable enough that he had just turned on his heel, went to fetch his belongings, and got out of there.

Under different circumstances, maybe he would have gone after Freddie and demanded to know what he meant. But the days preceding the performance had been increasingly… chilly, he supposed, between them. He had thought Freddie had made himself quite clear. And that had been it.

Roger had evaded Brian on the way out. He had seen Brian talking to Freddie's flatmate – girlfriend? – Mary, wasn't it? – and by the looks of it, he'd been pretty plastered, swaying slightly on his feet. Roger really hadn't felt like staying to listen to drunken declarations. Or to answer any questions, either. It was very unlike Roger to not be the life and soul of the party, but the mood had been quite thoroughly shattered. He had wanted to get away from Freddie's accusing eyes and his sharp words, and away from the press of people. When he'd got home, he had crashed and slept like the dead. Until he hadn't, of course.

 _Well. I suppose that's it, then. It was nice while it lasted,_ Roger thought, wrapping his scarf tighter around his face, trying to keep the cold air out. _Time to get back to Miami's, take stock and move on. No use thinking about it._

* * *

And then the next day, Roger faced the reality of the second performance. He needed to pick up the pieces of the premiere, find a way to move on. Nothing else for it. Life went on, regardless of dark accusing eyes and after-show parties that ended all wrong.

There was a chill in the air that day. _A promise of ice in the wind,_ Roger thought as he stepped onto the street. Matches the inner temperature, doesn't it. He winced at the pain in his hip: it was always worse in the cold and the wet of winter. He'd need to make sure he warmed up once more just before going on stage, and properly at that. _Should probably dig up the long legwarmers, too, just in case._ It never hurt to be extra cautious.

There had been no communication between himself and Freddie. _Or anyone else either,_ Roger dutifully corrected himself. _It's not just Freddie._ It didn't signify, really; usually if things went well, there would be time enough to go through what needed to be dealt with before the performance itself. But however much he tried to convince himself, it didn't help the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Roger was dragging his heels. There was no other word for it. It was a significant contrast from the night of the premiere, when his steps had felt light and the entire way from his apartment to the opera house had gone by almost without him noticing. He had almost floated in expectation of the night to come. But now, it was difficult to approach the stage door. Even the door felt like it weighed a ton, and it was a joyless task to think about changing into his costume again. Already, it felt like he had done it all far too many times. 

He ran into Sheffield, of all people, in the corridor. Naturally. The day just kept getting better, didn't it? Roger could see Mr Jarvis – _the idiot,_ Roger labelled him in passing, with a sudden savage stab of glee – in Sheffield's wake. He looked like he resented being buoyed along with the wave. But there was no stopping it: Sheffield was clearly in a good mood, and he wasn't to be stopped. He clapped Roger on the shoulder, babbling something about sold-out performances and about how it was a "good show, old chap." Roger didn't pay him too much mind; he was far too preoccupied with his own thoughts. But he did hear enough to wonder about how the tone of the higher-ups had changed so abruptly. _Well, success has a way of doing that,_ he thought, mouth twisting around the bitterness of the thought.

* * *

There were nods and smiles in the dressing room. These felt more genuine than the forced cheer of Sheffield and his one-man entourage, and for the first time that day, Roger started to relax.

He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved that he caught no sight of Freddie until he was in his costume, minutes away from going on stage. There was no escaping it once he stood just beyond the wings. There he was, resplendent in white. The tights hugged his long legs, and the jacket glimmered. Roger blinked, his lashes feeling suddenly strangely heavy under the thick coat of stage make-up. 

To Roger's relief, there was no coldness in Freddie's dark eyes. But he definitely looked wary. But then, Roger supposed that he did, too. He almost thought that the moment would pass with neither of them saying anything. But Freddie spoke, and his words came as a surprise. 

"I think I was a bit of a prick yesterday," Freddie said. "I'm not sure what came over me. Too much to drink, maybe. I hope you – I'm sorry, Roger."

The music from the stage swelled in the background, drowning everything else out for a moment. Roger shook his head. "It's all right," he mumbled. "Don't worry about it." What else could he have said?

And while there was nothing particular that Roger could put a finger on, nothing he could point out that wasn't right, it still didn't solve anything. Mostly, it felt like Freddie was shutting him out. Something in the way he held himself, alert and turned in on himself, told Roger to not push it. And so there was nothing more to say. Freddie nodded, curtly and quickly, and in silence, they made their way backstage side by side, waiting for the performance to start.

* * *

It seemed to Roger that this time around, he heard the music in a different way. The second performance was turning out to be something of a contrast to the first one. He was able to concentrate on it much more, but it also seemed to have acquired a tone he hadn't picked up on before.

The Schumann in the beginning started slowly. The theme was a beautiful, haunting melody that seemed to echo Freddie's steps. It picked up pace while retaining the same structure in its form as Roger came on stage, as they first noticed and then began to circle around each other. Their characters on stage marvelled at each other, investigating whether they were real – perhaps the other was just a mirage? A mirror image, a figment of their imagination? – and the music slowed down to shimmering chords in the second variation. It acquired an almost frantic energy that gave way to incurable sadness under Brian's hands, as Roger and Freddie, the two contrasting figures on stage, tried to reach each other and did not quite dare to believe that the other existed. It ended up in a strange, otherworldly mixture of grief and beauty that hurt Roger deeply. It felt like shards of ice in his chest.

Then Brian moved on to the Mozart, and as the strings came in, it was as though the clouds parted and there was warmth in the world again. It became possible for the two dancers on the stage to mirror each other, to meet, and almost touch.

It wasn't as though touching on the stage was the same as in reality; not at all. Roger's concentration was firmly on keeping the choreography moving and making sure he was doing his own part, and on time and where he needed to be. But he just had enough time left to steal a couple of very fleeting glances at Freddie, at times when he paused and Freddie moved. The irony of it all was that they worked better together now than they had at the premiere, more secure in the choreography and in each other's presence. And at the end of the Innuendo, Roger closed his eyes and tried to impress the feeling and the warmth of having Freddie's cheek pressed against his for an instant. There was a sadness to it. A calculating part of himself thought that maybe it would bring a depth to his interpretation; but then the moment passed and they were facing the audience, a little dazed.

He had to hand it to Brian, too, Roger thought as he stood at the edge of the stage, bowing to the audience, revelling in the applause and the knowledge of a job well done. Despite all their squabbling at the rehearsals, Brian really had done a brilliant job, marrying the music to the steps and created something that was bigger than its component parts.

* * *

The next morning – a Sunday – wasn't nearly as bad as the previous days had been. _That's progress, anyway,_ Roger thought as he woke up, still groggy, with a vague memory of uneasy dreams of following an elusive shape clad in white through mist. At least it wasn't in the middle of the night, and he had no burning need to clean his whole flat just because. There had been no real party the night before. Almost everyone had pleaded tiredness, promising to make up for it later. Anyway, it was curious how quickly you got into the groove of performances, and how quickly it felt like it was all you had ever done. _And how quickly it's all going to come to an end,_ Roger added to himself. He sighed. 

The reviews were likely to come in that day, though. Finally. The thought made him perk up a little. 

On the way to the theatre, he picked up a copy of _The Guardian._ He couldn't resist flipping through it while he walked, even though it meant that his fingers were exposed to the raw wind.

 _The Talk of the Town,_ the headline said. Roger stopped in his tracks, almost colliding with an important-looking man wearing a black blazer and loud tartan trousers. Was that really it? He scanned the page, bringing the newspaper closer to his face in his eagerness. 

_A fresh breath on the stage at Covent Garden,_ he read.

 _A bold, daring, and modern take on classical ballet. This is surely the most important work of the season,_ the next paragraph declared. _The future belongs to the dynamic duo of Taylor and Mercury._

Buffeted by the other pedestrians (he supposed he was in their way) and feeling dazed by what he had read, he finally stumbled into the maze-like back corridors of the Royal Ballet. He was met by Brian, who was twisting a crumpled _Sunday Times_ in his hands.

"Did you see this piece of rubbish?" he said, instead of a greeting, waving the offending newspaper at Roger.

"Bad?" Roger winced.

"Idiotic, more like," Brian huffed. "But Freddie's back there somewhere reading _The Guardian._ I think he said that was better."

"Want to swap?" Roger offered his copy to Brian, grabbing hold of the wrinkled _Sunday Times_ instead.

Brian looked mollified as he started reading the glowing review. "Someone said _The Observer_ 's also got one, but I haven't seen that yet," he said.

Roger hummed, trying to smooth out the paper enough to read what it was that was so horrible.

 _Overwrought sentimentality and sugary emotion._ Well, that wasn't too painful, was it?

 _Depravity and vulgarity shook hands in this work of overripe decadence,_ he read. Ouch. That was a bit hurtful. But maybe expected.

_Clichéd symbolism. Some of the choreography is admittedly impressive._

"Ha!" Roger crowed. "They can't deny that we're brilliant! Come on, Bri, it's not that bad."

"Well, I suppose not," Brian said hesitantly. "I just wish someone had mentioned the music."

On the way further into the maw of the building, they were met by Leslie Edwards, the ballet master. He looked cheerful, and once they were close enough, he shoved The Observer into their hands. 

"You should take a look at this," he said. "We'll see what _Dancing Times_ says when it comes out, of course. But boys, this is impressive. Everyone's talking about you. You did it."

 _Interesting technical details,_ Roger read aloud to Brian. _A new kind of musical concept. A very advanced work._

Roger snorted at that. "Advanced. Straight out of the Thirties, that word, isn't it? I suppose we're lucky they're not calling it 'racy,' eh?"

"Well," Leslie smiled. "Just remember that a tiny whiff of scandal never hurt anyone, in this business."

* * *

But with Freddie, everything continued in icy silent politeness, reviews notwithstanding. Roger would have preferred almost anything else. A full-blown argument he could have dealt with. Shouting and slammed doors he would have welcomed. But it wasn't a fight. And that was exactly the problem.

Freddie was adamant that nothing was wrong. He was perfectly amicable, and perfectly polite. They were impeccably professional with each other. There was no playful joking, now. No question of any kind of intimacy between them. There was barely friendship. Freddie treated Roger distantly, withdrawing the moment Roger tried to exchange a couple of words.

There wasn't much Roger could do. And so he stopped trying. His instincts on the night of the premiere had been correct, it seemed. Freddie wanted nothing to do with him. Roger felt himself withdrawing, becoming numb. It was a strange turn-up for him, he reflected; usually he was in good spirits, smiling and warm. But now it seemed as though everything had been covered with a layer of ice, impenetrable, immovable. There was no possible way that they could be close to each other now.

Maybe it was time to start focusing on what came after this production, Roger thought. It had been nice enough while it lasted. A change of pace. But that, apparently, had been all it was. And now there were the pre-Christmas shows at Miami's to think about. He should start preparing for those. Stop mooning around.

Roger knew that he should have just let it go. Or – even more so – he should have confronted Freddie about it. It could have been any number of things, and it wasn't even as though Freddie's outburst had necessarily been significant of anything much.

But he couldn't do it. He couldn't find it in himself to go up to Freddie and ask him what he meant. To even try to break the ice, to try to find out what had gone wrong. His pride protested against it, but even more than that, memories of what had happened before built an impenetrable wall in his mind whenever he considered it.

He didn't want to hear Freddie rejecting him directly. The hazy memory of the night of the premiere was quite enough. He didn't want anything more, and it was easier to retreat. Of course he was still haunted by the thought of Freddie's face and hands. His long graceful limbs and the curve of his back. Imagining what would happen if he touched a shoulder, or put his hands on his waist, lightly... But it wouldn't have been the first time he was let down. Not the first time that his hopes for a relationship had been dashed. He trusted people too easily, and had paid the price for it several times before. It was his own fault, really. He should just have realised what Freddie was actually saying already earlier. 

And maybe it was all for the better. To let go and stop letting his fantasy get away from him – before he became dependent on Freddie. Before he started moulding his life around the other, and trusting too much. Only to be disappointed. Like he had been before.

* * *

Roger cursed the cold air. He had been feeling heavy, his legs feeling like lead, throughout warming up. And his hip wasn't behaving. He had pulled a legwarmer over it, and tied a woolly scarf over the warmer for good measure. And still it ached. 

In mounting desperation, he lifted his leg to rest against the wall of the corridor, his position close to a split. He hoped it would ease the hip; sometimes it did. 

One of the Royal Ballet dancers walked past, did a double take and stopped to talk with Roger, who racked his brain for the other's name. That's right: Ken. That's what it was. All these new people... It wasn't a friendship that he'd struck up with the other, not quite – there hadn't really been enough time for that. But they chatted amicably enough, gossiping companionably.

"And then I asked him if he'd missed me over the summer. And, you know, looked at him like this," Roger said, turning his head to demonstrate batting his lashes to Ken. He had to turn back rather quickly as his hip protested, but not before Ken had dissolved into laughter.

"No, you didn't," he wheezed. "Oh my God. I can so see him –" Ken said, averting his eyes from Roger. He went so far as to cover his eyes dramatically with one hand, to underline the absurdity of it all.

"You wouldn't believe the shade of purple he turned," Roger smiled. "I thought he'd have a fit or something."

"Oh, you're killing me." Ken leaned towards him, resting his hand on Roger's arm, all but cackling now. 

That's when Roger saw Freddie in the doorway, frozen, staring at them. His gaze was inscrutable. Roger became suddenly aware of how they were positioned. They were standing very close together, he was stretching, and Ken was all but hanging over him. It looked – it could very well look like they were flirting, couldn't it? Of course they weren't – they were simply united in their dislike of the fashionable Jarvis who thought he called all the shots. And maybe Ken and Roger's hilarity was a little overdone, but with another performance waiting and energy levels flagging, who could blame them? Roger lifted his chin. So maybe it looked a bit like flirting. His eyes met Freddie's, challenging: _what of it?_ If Freddie had a problem with it, maybe he could come to Roger, for a change.

Then Ken spoke and Roger turned back to him. From the corner of his eye he saw Freddie turning and leaving quickly.

"You know," Ken said. "I haven't said it in so many words to – to Freddie."

So maybe he had seen him, too? Roger was intrigued, despite himself.

"This place," Ken began. It sounded like it was difficult for him to get out. "This place isn't good for him. I'm not sure who it's good for, but definitely not Freddie. He's brilliant, but he's not tough. Not like you need to be, here among the sharks."

"And you are? Tough enough to take them on?" Roger arched an eyebrow at Ken.

"Oh, no," Ken said, shaking his head ruefully. "That's why I'm getting out. And Freddie should, too. He's being stifled. It's not the dance, you know. But the people."

Roger gingerly lowered his hurting leg. "Well," he sighed. "If only there was something I could do. But I can't think what it could be."

* * *

As they were once more waiting in the wings, ready to go on stage, Roger ogled Freddie. There was really no other word for it. If he felt guilty about it, it was only in passing. He only had a short time left to take in Freddie's beautiful posture. The proud lift of his head. His sharp cheekbones were further accentuated by the dramatic stage make-up.

He had incredible charisma on stage, Roger had come to notice. He was mesmerising to watch; people couldn't stop looking at him. He commanded the audience's attention, held them in the palm of his hand. And it was incredibly easy to dance with someone like that. Freddie's presence and the magic, almost, that he seemed to work on the stage, carried Roger along and gave him an extra boost of energy and confidence. He felt like he was twice the dancer when Freddie was there, next to him. They clicked, somehow. Sometimes it felt like they were reading each other's minds. And Roger didn't even feel it was too dramatic or too sappy to be saying that. It seemed like a simple fact. When they moved on the stage as one, it was as though they knew where the other one was, without needing to check.

* * *

And all too soon – or had it been too long? – it was the night of the final performance. The curtain went up once more; once more they took their places, and told the audience their story of longing and belonging, of discovery and of love. Or that's how Roger had come to think about it. 

The exuberance of the last night made itself felt in slight imbalances. Not quite everything was as well in synch as it should have been. Technically, it wasn't their best night, but Roger hoped that they made up for it by their enthusiasm. The coldness that seemed to have settled into his bones over the past couple of weeks was thawing, a little. There was a triumphant gleam in Freddie's eyes, and Roger had to fight not to grin outright on the stage.

And then it was over.

"Oh, come here, you," Roger said, not caring one whit about how tense things had been. Not in that moment, when the backstage party was getting rowdier by the minute. No one had even changed out of their costumes yet, but the drinks flowed freely. He wanted to feel close to Freddie one last time. He couldn't let him go like this.

And so Roger spread his arms, and slowly, hesitantly, Freddie stepped into his space. Roger pressed his face close to Freddie's neck, turning his head a little to almost nose at Freddie's hair. He breathed Freddie in. He hoped that he was being surreptitious enough, that Freddie wouldn't shrug him off. But Freddie seemed reluctant to let go, hugging him just as closely in return, so maybe it was all fine. Roger revelled in Freddie's warmth, and the press of his body against his. Their closeness. And so they held on to each other. It wasn't really a polite hug between colleagues, or even between friends. But after a last performance, maybe all such rules were suspended for a while.

"Please don't let us lose touch. Please don't disappear entirely," Roger whispered into Freddie's hair. He felt Freddie shake his head minutely, but to say what he couldn't tell.

Someone spoke, close to them, and the moment was broken. And that was it. Finally, they had to step away from each other. There was a suspicious moisture at the corners of Roger's eyes, but he decided not to mind it. He smiled at Freddie, and maybe it was a bit tremulous, but who could tell?

He took one last look at Freddie, trying to commit his dark eyes and beautiful features to memory. And then he sighed, turned, and went on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's the angstiest in this story. It's going to get lighter from here…
> 
> When I started writing, this was what I thought of as the midpoint or the hinge of this story. Or the end of the first act, perhaps. So here we are about to head to the second part of it!
> 
> Thoughts?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter gloom and Christmas feels – and the start of a new year and new plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading this, commenting or leaving kudos! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it 💖 
> 
> And thank you, as ever, to the incomparable quirkysubject for the beta, and for listening to me going on (and on, and on…) about this! 😘

The cold seeped in from every window. The draught eddied around, and just didn't let up. It was impossible to feel warm. The flat was unwelcoming, the damp lingering everywhere. Tom took shelter in Freddie's bed, and the warm cat nestled among the blankets was the only thing that made sleeping possible at all. This year, winter seemed even more unforgiving than usually. Freddie was used to the feeling of gloom that settled on him when a project was finished. When he was in the middle of a run of performances, everything that wasn't directly connected to the project was just set aside for a while. Days passed in a rush, and everything circled around the moments on stage. There was no time for anything else, for thinking, for reflecting, planning, nothing. Even if things went wrong or when they less than perfect, the world still revolved around the project. And – as always happened – when it was gone, everything turned drab and grey for a while. And lonely. So very lonely. Alone in the world, with nothing and no one to turn to for comfort. He knew he was being overly dramatic, but the knowledge didn't help. It was a familiar feeling, but this time it seemed even harder to shake than usually.

* * *

At the company, the time leading up to Christmas was devoted to _The Nutcracker._ Freddie had always liked the ballet, but now, even the shine of the lavish costumes was dull. There was nothing that captured his interest. It was just all the same old usual. Nothing felt quite worth it. The enthusiasm of the ballet school students who were taking part in the production grated on his nerves. He found himself avoiding everyone as well as he could, doing only what was necessary.

Going in for an unavoidable costume fitting, Freddie found Phoebe with a glittery garland around his neck. He seemed to be in high spirits, flitting about in the costume department amid countless racks of costumes. There seemed to be no end to them. The entire room was a veritable treasure-trove of fairy-tale accessories: animal heads, a small army's worth of mouse costumes, military coats with enormous amounts of gold braid, glimmering tutus and tiaras, embroidered cloaks and collars; anything you could imagine. Freddie tried to muster up some enthusiasm at the sight, but it felt like a chore. He knew he had failed when he saw how Phoebe's face fell at the sight of Freddie.

"Oh, dear," he said. "It can't be that bad!" 

Freddie tried for a smile. "It's not you, Pheebs," he said. 

"Well, whatever it is, banish the thought! Soon it will be Christmas! Mulled wine and mistletoe. The holly and the ivy," he hummed cheerfully as he picked up the many-coloured cloak that Freddie was going to be wearing in a section of the ballet. He had always liked that particular variation the best in the entire ballet. Listening to Phoebe's chatter, Freddie felt his mood lifting. He reached out impulsively to give him a quick one-armed hug.

"What was that about?" Phoebe looked up.

"Oh, nothing. Just – thank you, darling," Freddie said. And now he was going to need a handkerchief. Again. Damn it.

* * *

"...and back, two three, again, two three, one more time and other side."

The ballet mistress finished her demonstration, lifting her eyebrows as if to tell them to hurry up. The pianist started playing amid a slight rustle of clothing. There was a quiet sigh from somewhere behind Freddie.

The company class was a soothing routine. It gave days structure and it was a chance to collect his thoughts. Take stock of where he was and what he needed to do. Feeling his muscles stretch gradually and get ready for the day.

This morning, Freddie tried to concentrate on his alignment. After everything that had happened, all the excitement of the autumn, it was time to get back to the basics and to the core of dancing.

"That's it, good, good. Next it's _fondus._ It goes _fondu_ to the front, _plié en l'air_ and close. Pay attention, now, this is new."

The ballet mistress cast a stern glance over the room, ensuring that all eyes were on her. 

Freddie shuffled sideways a little, to catch her movements better. He moved his hand a tiny bit in time with her, made a minuscule _tendu_ with his foot, as a small mock-up, just to make sure he would remember it right.

"Freddie," Mary mumbled to him, quickly, while the ballet mistress was occupied on the other side of the room. She had claimed the place just in front of him on the barre.

He startled. He had been deep in his own thoughts, checking the position of his leg in the mirror. He had been relishing the chance to concentrate and to be alone, even though there was a crowd of people around him. But everyone had their own warm-up to see to, and everyone was preoccupied with whether their own dancing was still up to scratch, and how it measured up to the others. Despite it all, it was still a private space, and he resented the intrusion a little. Even if it was Mary. 

"Are you all right?" Mary whispered.

"Of course I'm all right," he hissed as he turned to the other side for the second part of the exercise. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you don't sound it," Mary threw over her shoulder. The ballet mistress approached them, and they tried to paint their faces into a picture of concentration. She nodded curtly at one dancer, and adjusted the turnout of another.

"Remember the ankle," she told Mary. "Front and close and then to the side," she said to the room at large, keeping the flow of the exercise going.

"Good, good," she then murmured to Freddie. "Just a little..." And she corrected the position of his right arm minutely.

The class went on in its orderly fashion, but Freddie felt a little unsettled. Mary wasn't exactly helping; it was clear there was something on her mind.

"We need to talk," she whispered. "We never talk these days."

Freddie nodded, not really listening. Maybe he just needed to work harder? If he really put his back to it, maybe then he'd find the spark again. Maybe all of it would start making sense once more. It was funny when you thought about it. How he had been feeling down back in the spring, like everything had lost a bit of its sparkle. And how the whole of their Innuendo had made him forget about all of that. Even the summer, hot and uncomfortable and lonely, hadn't brought with it that miserable feeling of aimlessness that sucked the joy and the light out of life. 

_"Grands battements,"_ the ballet mistress announced. Freddie turned towards her, noting that the series of movements looked like the one she gave them most days. He leaned down to adjust his shoe, stretching his back out at the same time, listening for any surprises.

But his thoughts kept wandering. And now that it was all over? Now that there was no more Innuendo? No more days of working on their own project to look forward to? It was worse than ever. He fiercely tamped down on any thoughts on this new despondency having a very specific reason. One with blue eyes and light hair that he would very much have liked to run his hands through. And a very nicely shaped backside, too, his treacherous mind whispered to him. Not to mention lower down, that was very nice too.

"Just a bit more to the side, now, Mercury," the ballet mistress's voice snapped him out of his own head. "And once more…" She moved away.

He gritted his teeth, trying to concentrate on the exercise. 

_"À la seconde_ and three and four," she called. _"Plié, sus-sous, soutenu_... And left side, thank you."

* * *

They had left it at that. Until a quiet Sunday morning a week later, when Mary was just setting out to visit her family. She sighed when she saw Freddie poking around in the small kitchen, and seemed to make up her mind about something as she was buttoning up her coat. She toed her shoes off again and came back into the flat, leaning against the door.

"Freddie?"

"Mary, darling?" He turned to look at her.

"I can't just let it go, you know. I'm sorry."

"What do you mean?"

"I should have done this before. You and that dancer, in that production of yours? Roger, wasn't it?"

Freddie stiffened, looking down.

"What about him?"

"Don't be like that, Freddie. You really liked him, didn't you? I think you should do something about it."

"It wasn't like that," Freddie whispered.

"Wasn't it?" Her gaze was far too knowing. "Well, have it your own way. I don't know how to say this, Freddie," she sighed when he didn't comment. "But I can't go on like this. You don't talk to me. You don't talk to anybody. All you do is mope and sit there, lost somewhere far in your head. I could just as well be living alone."

"You don't mean –" 

"Well, I suppose now's as good a time as any to tell you," Mary said. "I've been talking with some of the girls. There's a room at Dom's available – the rent is lower, and the flat is bigger."

Freddie opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

"You should sort it out. Think about what you really want. I'll always be there, Freddie, but I can't keep doing this."

"But –" he croaked.

"We were talking. Me and Dom. She says she knows Roger, by the way. He seems to have made friends with every dancer in town."

Was there an undertone to her voice? Or was Freddie making it up? Jealousy? It couldn't be.

"But I thought you liked it here," he said, feeling stunned.

"Oh, I do, of course I do," Mary said. She looked around the space they had spent so much time trying to get to look like a home. Despite it all, it was still draughty and poky, there wasn't much that could be done about that. "But I can't stay here. It's decided, Freddie. I'm moving out after Christmas."

"Oh," Freddie said. It felt like his brain had ground to a halt. If he hadn't been leaning against the table, he wasn't sure he would have stayed upright. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.

* * *

It didn't seem to be a good time to be hunting for a new flat. Phoebe was concerned when he heard the news, promised to ask around. Maybe something would turn up.

"I'll be okay for a couple of months. Tighten the belt a little," Freddie smiled tensely, unwilling to worry his friend too much.

Another complication presented itself in the form of the Christmas break bringing with it visits to his family ("I'm fine, mama. It's all going well." "I'm not sure I believe you. You don't look it, my boy.") and earnest conversations about his parents' hopes and dreams for him.

"I hope you remember how much we've sacrificed for you," his father had said, looking at him solemnly. "You will not go and throw it all away, I'm sure." 

"No, papa. I'm building for the future. I know what I'm doing."

_If only,_ he thought.

"You are working hard, aren't you?" His father was clearly concerned. Freddie tried to hold on to that. They wanted him to be all right, didn't they? 

"Of course I am, papa," he said. "I always do."

"And concentrating on what's important, aren't you? It's all well and fine to try out things, to make your own dances, but at the end of the day you need to think about how you're going to manage in the company."

"Yes, papa."

"You know that, don't you? Don't forget it. The Royal Ballet has given you a great opportunity. Don't throw it away."

* * *

It all made him even more restless, even more dissatisfied with himself when he returned to the flat. He turned the heating up, rummaging in a drawer for some candles. He changed into his favourite robe and pulled a shawl around his shoulders for good measure. But even though the tiny flat looked almost inviting in the candlelight, for a change, it didn't help. Not even cuddling Tom close to his chest did, not nearly enough. 

"But it's not your fault," he told the cat, who was watching him with unblinking eyes. "It's me who's all wrong."

What was it that he was actually afraid of? He turned it over in his mind, watching Tom washing his paw with great concentration. Losing himself, maybe? Becoming so involved with another person that nothing else existed? He shifted on the sofa, lifting one leg up in front of himself, trying to make himself more comfortable. But who was to say that's what would happen? Was it really inevitable?

Tom undulated gracefully to his feet, going on his own cat business in the direction of the tiny kitchen. Freddie followed him with his eyes.

It was better like this. It was. He knew that, but why did it feel so dismal? It was better to stand on his own feet and not cling to someone else, and expect them to provide comfort and meaning for his life. He had to be able to make his own happiness first. It wasn't fair to expect something like that of another person, and it wasn't healthy for him either.

But he couldn't help sighing when he thought back to the excitement of being near Roger. His brilliant smile and the way he had leaned towards Freddie when he talked. And when he had touched Freddie, when he had casually – oh, so casually – adjusted his position so that they had been all but tangled up in each other, how much Freddie had liked it. How he had hoped – no, scratch that. How he still couldn't help hoping that it would lead to something else. Even now that it was impossible. But the thought of something more – of not just playing at being intimate, but the real thing.

The memory of blue eyes, bright and smiling, still caught him at inopportune times. And the incredible energy in Roger's jumps. Along with a wistful longing for the feeling of having someone there who understood what he was trying to do: someone who was on the same wavelength. And who made anything possible. 

Later that night, still too alone in the flat, the rain was lashing despondently on the windows. Freddie found himself putting his recording of the Schumann variations onto the turntable once more. He listened to the soundtrack of their brief, shining dream, their Innuendo. He heard in it notes of loneliness, shades of pain and despair that he had never noticed before.

* * *

Freddie sat down at the table, tucking one leg under him. He plonked down his morning tea – the fragrant steam on a cold morning was so lovely – and shook out the newspaper he had picked up on his way home the previous night but hadn't had the energy to leaf through. Flat-hunting was so tedious. He sighed, giving the various ads a perfunctory glance. Shaking his head in defeat, he turned the pages back quickly to check if there were any dance-related news instead. Something interesting instead of the prospect of one dreary flat after another. He wasn't really expecting to find anything particular, but what he saw on the page made him stop and stare.

The headline was loud: _Elton John's grand plan for the new year: star invests in a dance scheme!_

Freddie frowned down at the paper. _Well, good for him,_ he thought, with a good deal of acerbity. He remembered the large glasses and the pink of the pop star's suit from the unfortunate night of the premiere, back then. Everything had been going so well, until it hadn't.

He read further on. The story was filled with Elton's enthusiasm:

_Ballet is the up-and-coming thing! It's going to be everywhere this year, the real in thing. It's what everybody's going to be talking about. Just you wait, Elton says. Everyone should have ballet in their lives!_

Most of the story was devoted to an interview of the star. But at the bottom of the page, Freddie discovered that Elton John had, in fact, pledged what seemed to be a sizeable sum of money (no further details given) to the James Beach Dance Company. Known in the business affectionately as the Beach House. Roger's company. Elton John was going to fund a series of performances, the paper proclaimed. _In a statement, company founder and director James Beach expressed his hope that this would signal a new golden age of new British choreography and highlight new talent._

It felt like a physical blow. The newspaper fell from his slack hands, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. A fire had gone out, and left just ashes behind. He tasted something bitter in his mouth.

_Well, that's just fantastic for Roger,_ he thought when the text had stopped swimming before his eyes. He took a gulp of his tea, grimacing when he noticed how cold it had got. He wiped at the dampness on his cheeks angrily. Because that's what it was about. It had to be. The way that Elton had looked at Roger at the premiere, with hearts in his eyes. And ready to sign over his fortune, it seemed. 

_And that's exactly what he wanted, isn't it? Everything's just peachy for him. And no doubt he's charmed him completely, too, by now. Ken, me, Elton John… all just notches on his belt, aren't we?_ He sniffed, feeling completely miserable. How could I have been so stupid?

Well, no more. Freddie stood up resolutely. He made himself fold the paper neatly away, placing the abandoned cup of tea in the sink, and promised himself not to think about it any longer. It was all in the past.

* * *

Things at the Beach House were settling into their usual groove after Christmas. Roger was cautiously walking back and forth in the long corridor on the second floor, testing out whether his hip would start protesting. The originally Victorian house was airy and light, with huge windows. Strictly utilitarian on the inside, rough cinder block walls and minimal furniture offering as much space as possible for dance.

Miami had suggested trying massage to help his leg, and it had been a veritable godsend. Roger had been a bit sceptical at first, but after a couple of tries, the tension and the ache in his hip had loosened wonderfully, and the pain was mostly just a distant memory. He just wasn't sure he could trust it yet; but it was as though one part of the ice that had surrounded him had started to thaw.

"Roger?" Miami poked his head out of his office as he walked by.

"What's the matter?" Roger asked, following him in and taking in the familiar scene. 

The office was a tiny cupboard of a place, just large enough to house a table and two chairs. Most of the space on the table was taken up by a heavy black typewriter. Roger stepped carefully around the wastepaper basket to perch on one of the chairs as Miami moved some papers around.

"I'm happy to have caught you," Miami said. "In the nick of time, too. It's this scheme of Elton's. You remember."

Roger cleared his throat. How could he possibly forget?

"We need to get the ball rolling," Miami persisted.

"Yes?"

"Well, I had been thinking about that project of yours. That Innuendo that you did. That was the heart of all of this, wasn't it?"

"Really?"

"Stop being daft, Roger. You're usually quicker on the uptake than this."

"Sorry. It's just a bit of a shock."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"It didn't really end all that well," Roger mumbled, suddenly finding the pattern of the floor incredibly fascinating. "We didn't really part on the best of terms, me and the other dancer, I don't think."

"Well, you'll just have to get over yourself. The quicker the better. This is business, now," Miami said briskly.

"Yes, but –"

"No buts, Roger. Elton was completely head over heels. And it was your performance that did it. He'd never even have considered doing anything like this, giving us the chance to stage so many more works than usually, if it hadn't been for that. So what we're going to do is we're going to do a repeat of that choreography of yours. The second act of the Innuendo, if you like."

"But –"

"No, just listen, Roger. It's the most sensible thing to do. We need to get this up and running quickly. And your Innuendo is the easiest way to do that. You know that as well as I do if you stop to think. I'll take care of the contractual stuff – I don't know what the Royal Ballet will say, but everything's always a matter of negotiation."

There was a gleam in Miami's eyes that didn't bode well for whoever was going to sit down at the negotiating table with him. Roger cheered up a little at the thought. Miami lived for these kinds of talks; it was what he was good at, and it was what had made The Beach House possible in the first place.

"The choreography is in your name, too, after all. That gives me an edge to start with."

Miami was almost rubbing his hands together in glee.

"But the reason I asked you to come here just today was simpler, actually," Miami said, catching Roger's eye and looking more serious again. 

"What I need to ask you is, who are we going to need to pull the choreography off? Who's necessary?"

Roger lifted a hand to his neck, sliding it under the collar of his shirt. "Well, I mean –" he began.

"That dancer you mentioned, of course. Freddie, wasn't it? He's the most important one, I'd assume." Miami's gaze was gentle, but he left no room for disagreement, or avoiding the issue. Not that Roger was going to do that, but it was quite a lot to wrap his head around, all of a sudden.

"I wanted to ask you if you'd call him," Miami said. "Don't you think it would be easiest that way?"

"I suppose so, but I don't know –"

"Don't think too much about it," Miami scolded. "Just do it. Since you were also contacted informally. You know?"

Miami turned to his notebook, scribbling quickly in short impatient strokes.

"I was thinking we could have a couple of performances in, would March be too early?"

"That's – it sounds good," Roger managed to get out. "We'll need a couple of weeks to get it into shape, I suppose."

"Mm-hm," Miami ticked something off a list.

Roger fidgeted restlessly on his chair. "But what if he doesn't want to do it?" he finally blurted out.

"Oh, come off it," Miami said. "You're not usually this squeamish, Roger. I don't know what's got to you, but if you were able to stand on the same stage in November, you'll do it again now as well."

"Well, yes. It's just –"

"If he's having doubts, you could always tell him that if everything goes well, there's no reason why there couldn't be other projects as well."

"Really? Oh, you mean that –" Roger waved his hand – "Elton's money will go that far? I mean, that it's not going to be a one-off?"

"That's exactly it. Series, that's what he specified. You might think about it, see if you have some ideas."

"That's huge," Roger said.

"It is," Miami nodded. "Something completely else. And it's because of you. If I were you, I'd try to capitalise on it," he said, with a shrewd glance at Roger. "And anyway, somehow it didn't look like this Freddie person would have been mortally offended or anything, the way you two were hugging, the last time I saw you." 

"What – it's not – that's completely –" Roger stuttered. It didn't help that Miami was quite clearly trying to wind him up, now. "Anyway," he huffed, trying to move on. "It's not just – just Freddie. It was Brian's work as much as ours."

"Oh? Hold on," Miami shuffled his papers, "you mean the pianist?"

"That's him."

"Hmm. Let me think about it. Well, you had Deacon working with you, so I could make a case of reciprocity."

"And then," Roger mused, getting deeper into thinking about the reality of it, "there's also Phoebe."

"Who's that?" Miami frowned.

"The costume guy," Roger said. "Oh. Peter, that's his name. It's just a nickname. You know, it wouldn't be a bad idea to try to rope him into doing some other work here, too."

He saw it in his mind's eye, for a glorious moment. All of Phoebe's – and John's – skill combined with the freedom that Elton's money might buy them.

"Oh, dear. And Deacon's been talking my ear off, too, about all the updates we should make to our PA rigging. You're going to ruin me, the two of you," Miami said.

"Ask and ye shall receive," Roger grinned, tongue between his teeth, knowing full well how obnoxious he was being.

"I suppose I did walk into that one," Miami groaned. "I should be more careful about what I wish for. Well, at least you sound more like yourself again," he said, finally dismissing Roger with a friendly nod.

* * *

In his head, Roger had gone through several possible scenarios. The easiest thing to do would be just to call Freddie on the phone.

_Hi Freddie, this is Roger. Remember me?_

_I just thought we might get together. I don't know if you'd be interested._

_But if you were. We could start again._

_I'd really want to snog you –_

He shook his head vehemently.

Or perhaps he'd just tag along with Brian to one of their rehearsals.

_Right, yes, brilliant plan,_ he congratulated himself sarcastically. _And be thrown back onto the street right at the doorway. Don't think Jarvis would hesitate, this time around._

Or just casually meet up with Freddie somewhere on the street. Completely by chance, of course. He'd just happen to be passing.

_Oh hi Freddie, it's been a while!_

The more he thought, the more impossible it all seemed to become, until he felt like his nerves were stretched tighter than a violin's strings.

Damn this, he finally decided. He'd just show up at the opera house. One afternoon. That's what he'd do. The rehearsals all tended to finish at around the same time, didn't they? And he could probably talk to Brian, too, in advance. Just unobtrusively try to find out when he'd have the best chance of catching Freddie. That would be okay, wouldn't it?

* * *

There were butterflies in his stomach, despite trying to tell himself again and again that he was being ridiculous. He was just going to stand there. Just going to talk to him. It wasn't a big deal. He chose a good spot to wait, near the stage door. Not too conspicuous, so that no one would come up to him and ask him why he was loitering. But not too far away, either, so that he wouldn't be able to spot Freddie as he left the building. He took his sunglasses off (not that he needed them, in the middle of January, but they provided him with a sense of security) and twirled them in his hand, absent-mindedly, a couple of times. Then he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He put the glasses back on, and leaned back against the wall, putting his hands in his pockets.

It felt like a small eternity. Dancers and other people came and went occasionally, but there was no one that Roger recognised. Some people looked at him curiously, but no one stopped. And then, finally, there was a peal of laughter as the door opened and a small gaggle of dancers appeared. They chattered animatedly. Roger straightened from his slump, searching the group with his eyes. Last of all, a little separate from the others, was a slender, dark-haired figure wrapped in a huge coat, who looked lost in some world of his own. 

Roger drew a hand through his hair and exhaled shakily. He waited for the dancer to come a little closer, stepping away from the wall. A smile was breaking out on his face, impossible to resist. It was so good to see him. He couldn't help it. Who cared what happened next? It was good to be here, and now.

* * *

On a bitterly cold January day, Freddie was contemplating the necessity of heading out to the biting air after the afternoon rehearsal. He was preoccupied, deep in thought about both the work they were practicing and its difficulties, and a phone call from Ken he had received earlier on. Ken had sounded – well, happy. More so than he remembered him in a long time. It seemed he was having a good time, and thriving up north. Perhaps Freddie should take it as a hint? Maybe he, too, should seek his fortune elsewhere? It would solve his problems with the flat, at least. Would it be possible, perhaps, to get a leave of absence from the Royal Ballet?

The inevitability of freezing outside was delayed for a while by the sight of Brian hunched over a table in the corridor, trying to sort out a bundle of scores. 

"Oh! Freddie! So good to see you," Brian said, smiling sideways up at him. "I was just thinking about you the other day."

"How have you been, darling?"

"Well," Brian deflated a bit. "I think I'm just a bit bored, again," he sighed. He fiddled with the scores. "I got too used to doing my own thing, there before Christmas. But it was yours, too, of course, just as much as mine," Brian hurried to add.

Freddie shook his head, trying to reassure Brian; but of course. 

"It gets me down sometimes, being back to being treated like a record player", Brian said.

Freddie sighed. "I'm sorry. It's difficult, isn't it? It was like a taste of freedom –"

"Of how things could be, yes," Brian nodded.

"And for what? It just leads nowhere." Freddie frowned at himself. "But I'm being horribly ungrateful. I don't mean to be, really."

"You're not," Brian said softly. "I agree with you, you know. And it was good, wasn't it?" His voice was wistful.

"It was," Freddie said, laying a hand on Brian's arm. "And what you did was, well, it was genius, really."

Brian laughed, a short chuckle. "Thank you, Freddie. And you, too. You and Roger. How are you – " He hesitated. "Have you heard from him?"

Freddie shook his head. Not this again. First Mary, and now Brian. "Let's talk about something else, shall we?"

"Sure," Brian sighed. "I just think you should maybe –"

"What?"

"Well. It's none of my business, really," Brian said, taken aback at his tone. "I didn't mean – I don't know what happened between you two."

"It's not –" Freddie gestured vaguely with his hand, trying to indicate it wasn't a problem. Nothing of the kind.

"But I was thinking," Brian went doggedly on. "Maybe I could arrange some kind of a get-together? At my place, maybe? For all of us? I'd like to talk to John again, too, you know."

"Oh, dear," Freddie said. He tried not to let himself think about it. _Just push it away._ "That sounds nice, but – you know, Brian, isn't it better to just leave it be? It's in the past and there's no use insisting."

Brian looked doubtful. "Let me know if you change your mind," he said.

Freddie hummed, waving a quick goodbye. Maybe the cold air wouldn't be so bad, after all. He could do with a bit of a change of scene, he thought. He didn't want to think about Brian's words, but there was no getting away from them either.

Drawing his coat tighter around himself, he made his way out and down the stairs. He lifted his eyes to the street below. And stopped dead. There was a familiar-looking man with a shock of light hair leaning against the wall of the opera building, wearing sunglasses in defiance of the wintry day. He looked nonchalant and at ease; all the time in the world at his disposal. There was a wide grin on his face, much brighter than the weak rays of the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me (or shout at me) in the comments!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cup of tea on a cold day; some things are cleared up, and Freddie visits the Beach House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone still reading this after all this time: thank you so much! 💗 I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to update this story. (I absolutely didn't mean for there to be a three-month hiatus!) I'm determined to finish this, though.
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful Quirkysubject 🙏💖 for the beta, for keeping the chapter on track (and for the flamethrowers)! This wouldn't be happening, at all, without you!
> 
> And thank you Nastally 😘 for asking me about it, and for help with the theatre terminology!

"Freddie! How are you?"

"Oh – Roger –" Freddie didn't know what to think, or what to say. He was still standing on the lowest step of the stairs, and he hopped quickly to the pavement, trying to get out of the way of the people passing by. He was struck by both the wild desire to either turn back and flee to the safety of the dressing rooms, or to fall dramatically at Roger's feet.

His mind was reeling, grasping futilely at straws. "I was just talking to Brian," Freddie finally got out. He looked back at the stage door, as though the pianist would somehow materialise and explain the whole thing to him. "He mentioned something about – about you just now, but – "

"Yeah? Great minds and all that, then," Roger said, flashing another smile.

"I mean – did you plan this with him?" Freddie tried to get a handle on the discussion.

"No," Roger shook his head. "Of course not. But I did mention to him I was thinking of maybe coming and trying to meet you, one of these days."

"You did?"

"Well, you know, just in passing. But we didn't arrange it or anything, if that's what you mean. Brian didn't know I was coming today or anything like that. I didn't know myself until just now." Roger's words were careful, and he seemed intent to not be misunderstood.

"No, I didn't – I don't know what I meant." Freddie bit his lip. "It's been one of these days. Anyway, how are things with you? I hope you've been well, Roger. I've heard great things about you, in any case."

"Oh? Well, that's good, isn't it?" Roger seemed perplexed. But not guilty, or self-satisfied, or any of the things Freddie had been picturing.

Freddie shuffled his feet, not knowing what to say, or to do. He hoped Roger would make a move of some sort and save him from deciding.

"Listen, Freddie, I – are you in a hurry? Could we talk? Somewhere indoors, maybe?" Roger's smile had turned a little crooked, when Freddie risked a quick sideways glance at him. "Get in from the cold, in any case?"

"Well, I suppose..." Freddie said. He wanted nothing more than to grab hold of Roger and never let go. But at the same time, he wanted tell him to leave him alone and never come back. To say something so savage it would wipe Roger's smile right off his face.

And then he felt ashamed the next moment. How could he even think something like that, with Roger right there? Freddie's dancer's eye couldn't help but notice that the set of his shoulders looked tense. And he was still hiding his bright eyes under the sunglasses, too. However much Roger was smiling, he was nervous, too, underneath it all. Roger had come to him, wanting to talk, and that had cost him something. And Freddie was repaying Roger by thinking of ways in which he could be as hateful towards him as possible. How nice of him.

Freddie was still caught in his thoughts, undecided, when Roger turned, touching Freddie's arm companionably to set out down the street.

"I think there's a place right here, nearby, just down the road," Roger said. "That okay? It's a bit grimy, if I remember it right, but it'll be warmer, anyway."

Still unsure of his footing, Freddie followed Roger into a dingy little café with horribly yellow walls. Freddie couldn't tell if it was the wallpaper, age, or perhaps smoke from countless cigarettes that was to blame for the colour. A smell of grease seemed to pervade the place, coating the walls and the tables in an unpleasant film. 

Despite all of that, the warmth inside was startling and more than welcome after the chill outside. And just as Roger had said, that in itself was enough, for the time being. Freddie was sure that the close atmosphere would start to seem stuffy very quickly, but for now, he exhaled happily, revelling in the feeling of blood flowing back to his cheeks.

There weren't many people there; it seemed like everyone there was either a friend of the owner's, or a regular customer. Freddie and Roger stood out like a sore thumb. But still, as long as no one said anything, he was determined to grit his teeth and see it through.

"Just tea," Freddie swallowed, as they stood at the counter. Roger was fiddling with the sunglasses, now dangling from his hand. The proprietor didn't look too kindly disposed towards either of them. It was probably better not to push his luck and ask for anything complicated, Freddie thought.

It struck him, then, that this was the first time he had ever spoken to Roger – seen Roger, actually – outside the rehearsal studio, or the stage. It was a strange thing to realise. They had never been alone together. Not like this, in a café where no one knew who they were, and where they weren't going to be interrupted. No one was interested in them, or looking for a juicy piece of gossip. It was exhilarating, but there was also a trace of that fear that had laced his thoughts all through autumn, mixed in it.

They settled down at a table by the window. The surface was unpleasantly sticky, like everything else in the café, and the yellow runner didn't help matters. It looked stained and there were a couple of burns that looked like they had been made by cigarettes. Freddie did his best to try not to touch the table at all, keeping his hands carefully away from it. He eyed Roger warily, still unsure of what the other was after.

Even though Roger seemed so familiar, they had in fact never actually spoken with each other outside of the opera building. Never spent time together, never had anything to do with each other except in a strictly professional environment. As much as he had berated himself for his unprofessional behaviour and for having got so side-tracked during the past year – was it even true? So much of it was just in his own head.

It was the same thing that he remembered from the Innuendo – even though he recalled it only now that Roger actually was there. It was easy to be with Roger. Easy to forget the chill and the loneliness of the Christmas period. Like there had been no coldness or wariness between them. Or almost, anyway. 

Freddie caught himself thinking that it felt like he could pour out the deepest secrets of his soul to Roger and he would understand – and that's when he stopped in his tracks. This was exactly the kind of thing that had been his downfall the last time. Precisely what he had promised himself he would avoid. 

But the Roger who was sitting on the other side of the table from him seemed subdued compared to what he remembered from the autumn. Roger wasn't as exuberant, there wasn't the same brilliance to his smile, and he wasn't actively seeking contact. Perhaps it was all for the better. _Perhaps they could have a shot at being friends, now,_ Freddie mused. 

He would quite like to get to know Roger, he thought, as he stirred his tea. Properly, this time. He would quite like to be friends with him. But he wasn't sure Roger shared his thoughts.

"So. It seems like it was an age ago," Roger started, finally breaking the silence.

"A couple of lifetimes," Freddie nodded.

Roger took a deep breath, then, like he was steeling himself for something. "But there was something I wanted to ask you."  
"Go on," Freddie said.

"It's about Miami. Or, you know, us at the Beach House."

"Yes, you work there, I know," Freddie said. He was mystified by Roger's choice of topic. Why would Roger bring that up? But he also knew that he wasn't helping Roger, at all, and he felt a little bad about it. At the same time, there was also a tiny bit of guilty satisfaction in seeing the usually so composed Roger at a loss for words.

Roger shifted again in his seat.

"It's – I don't know if you've heard that we got given quite a lot of money recently, for new projects. Or a series of projects."

Freddie studied his tea, a dark flash of jealousy going through him. "Yes, I did read about that. It must be wonderful for you."

"I don't know about that," Roger said. "Or, I suppose it could be. If you –"

Freddie lifted his eyes when it seemed that nothing else was forthcoming.

"If I what?"

Was Roger blushing? He couldn't be.

"If you were there with me," Roger said. His eyes were steady, although there was definitely a pink tint to his cheeks.

"What?"

"That's what I wanted to ask you. Miami said that he wants us – you and me – to put on Innuendo again. I mean, if you'd like." 

Freddie's eyes were locked with Roger's blue ones. He tried to understand what Roger was saying.

"At your place? I mean, at the Beach House?"

There was something that might have been the cautious beginnings of a smile on Roger's face.

"There, yes. You're welcome to my flat, too, but actually dancing at mine might be a bit challenging."

"Oh, stop it," Freddie said, a noise that might have been a giggle escaping from him. Slip of the tongue.

"Yeah?" Now the smile had bloomed properly on Roger's face. "That sounds like you're not dismissing it out of hand, then?"

"I don't know. I need to think about it."

"Yes, of course." Roger took a sip of his tea, and then he grimaced, reaching for the sugar. "This isn't quite what you'd call the greatest cuppa ever, is it," he said.

"No," Freddie agreed, absently. This just wouldn't do. He needed to be able to meet Roger on his own ground. None of this uncertain stammering. He had to be able to spell it out.

"I'm not sure if –" he started. "Wouldn't I be intruding?"

"Why would you be? I can't very well dance the whole thing by myself, can I? I need you, Freddie."

"I don't mean the dancing," Freddie said with a grimace. "I mean that you and Elton –"

"Elton?" Roger looked bewildered by the name. Like the conversation had suddenly taken an odd turn. But surely – Freddie felt a sudden fierce stab of resentment. 

"Yes, Elton," he said, determined not to let Roger get away with it that easily.

"What about him? Oh, you mean the money? Yes, that's where it's coming from. Elton's financing it. I suppose he can afford it."

Freddie shook his head. "No, not that. I know about that part. But –"

"Yes?" Roger took a sip of his tea.

"I thought that you two. Aren't you – aren't you together?"

Roger sputtered and almost choked on his tea. "We what? Together? Me and Elton? Oh, no. No, no, no. You've got it completely wrong. It's not, Christ. It's not even remotely like that."

"Really?" Freddie couldn't help the sceptical note in his voice.

"Yes, really." Roger stopped to cough. "'Scuse me. Whatever gave you that idea? Why would I –"

Freddie couldn't let him continue. "I thought – you seemed so close."

"What? No, absolutely not."

Freddie opened his mouth to speak again. But Roger wasn't finished.

"Is that why you – no, never mind, don't answer that. At the premiere? Is that what you mean?"

"But I saw you," Freddie said, feeling vaguely defensive. "I saw you with Elton. You were all over each other. What was I supposed to think?"

Too late, Freddie realised that he sounded like a jealous boyfriend. And he had no right to. "Not that I. I mean, it's none of my business," he hastened to add.

"Freddie." Roger reached over the table, touching his wrist lightly with his fingers. "Listen. About Elton. And the premiere. I have no idea what he was going on about. I barely listened to him. Honestly. Whatever you saw, it definitely wasn't the beginning of a – a romance, if that's what you thought."

He was silent for a while.

"I wish you'd told me," Roger finally said, quietly.

Freddie realised several things, then. He had just told Roger that he thought Roger was gay. 

And that, by extension, he was, too. 

And that Roger hadn't corrected him.

He hadn't even seemed surprised.

* * *

The silence stretched out between them. Freddie didn't know what to do to break it. He stared gloomily into his cup of tea, which had long since grown cold. Everything he could think of to say carried too much weight. How did you move on from here? He had a feeling that things were hanging in a balance between them: a single word could tip them in either direction. And he didn't want to say the wrong thing.

When the proprietor of the café was already throwing them significant looks, bustling loudly to the table next to theirs and giving it a cursory wipe with a very grey rag, Roger finally lifted his eyes.

"Freddie. I don't know what to say. But I was thinking. Since I'm already here. If you're not completely dead set against the idea. Would you like to come by the Beach House? Just to look around?"

"You mean –" Freddie began, hopefully. Maybe he hadn't ruined everything, after all.

"Yes," Roger rushed on. "Just to see what you think. If you like the stage. Not that I'm trying to talk you into it or anything –"

Freddie snorted at that. It was an undignified sound, but he felt lighter than he had for a long while, and couldn't bring himself to care. "Well, excuse me," he said. "I think that's exactly what you're doing."

Roger lifted his hands up in defeat. "Guilty as charged," he said. "But I suppose the question is, do you mind?"

"Do I mind being sweet talked by you? Not all that much," Freddie said. And then he had to glance away from Roger hastily, when his brain caught up with what he had just said.

"Yeah?" Roger cleared his throat. Freddie had no idea what he was thinking, and he didn't dare look. "So, anyway, the Beach House. I know it's smaller and it's not what you're used to," Roger continued. Freddie breathed a sigh of relief; it didn't sound as though Roger was offended, at least. 

"But now that I have seen your stage, back in the autumn, I think we're not doing too shabbily, really," Roger said. "There's a lot you can do there, too. Would you like to see? "

"Do you mean – now?"

"Well, are you busy now? Or this afternoon?"

"Not really," Freddie said, before he had time to even think of an excuse. Maybe he didn't need one. It certainly didn't feel like it.

A large – and ever larger – part of him wanted nothing more than to throw caution to the winds. Agree with all of his heart and follow Roger to the ends of the earth. And Freddie wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"We could, you know, just walk from here. It's not that far. Just to Euston?" Roger looked at him, questioning.

Freddie nodded. "Why not?" After all, what was the harm in going to look? He was curious about it. It still wasn't okay, but Freddie thought that they might, just, be on their way to becoming okay.

* * *

In all the upheavals of the last half an hour, the emotional ups and downs of their conversation and his uncertainty, he had forgotten just how cold it was.

He pressed his hands into his pockets, trying to curl his fingers up small. He shivered.

Roger looked at him then, from under his brows. "Freddie. You're freezing. Haven't you got gloves? Here – take mine," he instructed. "I think my coat's thicker than yours." 

And before Freddie had time to figure out what was happening, Roger had pressed his gloves into Freddie's hands, made sure Freddie put them on, and instructed him to tuck his hands back into his pockets, too, just in case. It was a small gesture, all over and done with in a matter of seconds. Just a mate helping another out. No one on the street around them had even noticed it, or would have thought much of it if they had. Their hands had touched for just a few fleeting moments. 

And yet Freddie was reeling. It was dizzying, all of a sudden. He felt taken care of, looked after. It was too much, too fast, and yet all they were doing was walking along the street in broad daylight.

Roger seemed to be moving much faster than him, in all senses of the word. It was as though his own brain was slow and sluggish, and Roger danced in circles around him. 

As they walked along, bending their heads a little against the freezing wind, Freddie contemplated Roger, catching small glimpses of him every now and then. He hadn't come right out and said it, but something had definitely changed. There was a promise – a whisper of something between them now. 

He couldn't help his thoughts running away from him, thinking about what might happen. The idea of actually dating another dancer – a male dancer – even if it still seemed far-fetched, at the moment, it gave him pause. He felt ambivalent about it, to say the least. It would never work. Even if it was Roger. Who – well, he didn't know what he felt about him, anymore.

As they turned a corner and the solemn brick façade of the Beach House came into view, Freddie saw that Roger was starting to relax. Somewhere along the way, the set of his shoulders had loosened up, and his eyes were glinting with poorly concealed mischief. Freddie was glad to see it. Maybe the balance was tipping the right way, after all. Whatever that might mean.

Roger held the stage door of the Beach House open for Freddie, chivalrously. 

"Welcome to the James Beach Dance Company, Freddie. You know, if you do agree to take part in all of this madness –" he waved a hand, taking in everything in his surroundings – "I was going to say, we're of course having John do the lights and all of that again."

"Of course," Freddie said. He was busy looking around, trying to take it all in. The light and airy space was familiar to him from before, but he'd never been there in the afternoon, or accompanied by someone who knew every nook and cranny of the house intimately. 

"He's brilliant, isn't he, John?" Freddie said as he trailed after Roger. "He made it all look so simple," he mused. "We don't usually get to see all that much of how things work for the sound and lighting people. But it was all very impressive. And interesting, too. I mean, think of all the possibilities."

"Yes. There isn't much he can't do, I don't think," Roger said. "And he keeps talking about all kinds of amazing things. Flamethrowers, I think I heard him say, the last time I talked with him."

"Really? That must be interesting for those on stage," Freddie said politely, trying and failing to visualise it.

"Sounds completely potty, doesn't it?" Roger grinned. "Besides, I think Brian is a bit soft on him," he continued, waggling his eyebrows.

That made Freddie laugh. He lifted a hand to cover his teeth, only to catch Roger's eyes on him, shaking his head a little, and looking at him in a way that seemed almost fond.

"You know," Freddie said, casting about for something to say, to keep the conversation going, "about John. All the crew back at Covent Garden, they were green with envy after they saw what he did. He absolutely wiped the table with them."

"Typical John," Roger snorted. "And ask him how he did it, he'll just smile and not say a word. I'm just glad he's on our side. I'd hate to cross him."

"No, you wouldn't want that. You'd never be heard of again. Disappear without a trace," Freddie teased.

A balding man with a visible five o'clock shadow – a man who looked unmistakeably like someone who shifted scenery and did all the important backstage jobs that dancers and other artists didn't have a clue about, but who would be completely lost without him (and knew it very well) walked past them, whistling under his breath. He lifted an amicable hand in greeting to Roger, who nodded in return.

"We're all pretty close here," Roger said in answer to Freddie's puzzled frown. "Everyone on top of everyone else."

"Does that… work?"

"That depends," Roger grinned. "I think it does. Most of the time."

Freddie just hummed, too many new thoughts to take in at once.

"Well, here we are," Roger said. "Here's the auditorium. Come right in; I think there's nothing happening in there just now, so we can have a gander in there and take a look at the stage."

"Are you sure?" Freddie stopped in the doorway, unsure. If they had been at the Opera House, no force in the world would have compelled him to continue. Every room, every rehearsal space – not to mention stages – had to be reserved. You needed to have the right to be there. Nothing else was possible. That's what he was used to; it felt deeply odd that the rules might be different elsewhere.

"It's fine," Roger said. "If someone's already there, they'll just tell us to go away. Simple as that."

"On your head be it," Freddie said as he followed Roger in.

Inside, the auditorium was in darkness. Roger flipped a light switch next to the door, and Freddie walked slowly down the stairs, marvelling. It looked surprisingly spacious. And comfortable, somehow. Full of possibilities.

At the bottom of the stairs, Freddie turned and looked back up. It felt strange, imagining the audience there, above him and right next to him. At the Opera House, the people were far off, somewhere in the darkness; here, the tiered seating meant he would be dancing almost on top of them. He'd be able to see their faces and their reactions. 

Freddie left his shoes at the edge of the stage, stuffing Roger's borrowed gloves into his coat pockets. He walked around, testing the give of the floor a little. He couldn't resist trying out a couple of dance steps. Nothing fancy; just a quick turn, and a _chassé._

Roger was looking at him from the side, a smile on his lips. He came closer, lifting a hand which Freddie took, instinctively. They passed each other; turned face to face, and fell into rhythm with each other. They hadn't discussed it, or agreed on it in any way, but somehow it felt natural to come back to the choreography of their Innuendo. Freddie couldn't say how they had both hit on the same passage to go through, but it was as though they moved as one. Thought as one.

It was perfect, and it was a tiny bit frightening.

Finally, they came to a halt. Roger looked and sounded as out of breath as Freddie felt. It really wasn't a sensible thing to do, to dance in their jeans and coats. But the light in Roger's eyes was worth it.

He wanted this. In that moment, he realised that there was nothing else in the world that he wanted more. The dance, the movement, the joy of dancing with Roger. The connection, the partnership, and the freedom. An old fire had been reignited once again: the burning want to perform, to express himself, and to create. He wanted to dance on this stage. With this partner. He didn't remember when he had wanted anything so intensely. 

It felt like a relief, too. Like a part of him that he hadn't realised had gone missing had finally been returned to him.

"So?" Roger asked, on an exhale. "Is that a yes?"

"Oh, yes," Freddie said. He couldn't imagine saying anything else, not after that. 

The smile on Roger's face was blinding. Scorching. 

"Come on, let's go somewhere a bit out of the way," Roger said, looking around him. There wasn't anyone around, and the whole place was completely silent. But it still felt better, and safer, too to make their way backstage, in case someone would happen to poke their nose in.

Roger led the way to a shadowy space behind the stage. They were surrounded by slightly musty curtains and the usual seemingly disorderly tangle of cords and equipment that was very familiar to Freddie from all the performance spaces he had ever been in. It felt safe, to Freddie. _Like home,_ he thought, feeling a little dazed. 

In the dim light, Roger turned to Freddie. He was close, now. Freddie shivered, but didn't move away. The opposite, in fact; he found himself leaning in. Waiting for what would happen.

There was a determined look in Roger's blue eyes, now. He leaned closer, and closer still, until Freddie could feel the warmth radiating from him on his own skin. And before he had time to think about what was happening, Roger's lips touched his, and all thought left him. 

It didn't last long enough. Not by a long shot. Roger drew back a little, eyes searching Freddie's. He was fascinated to notice how much darker they looked.

"I've wanted to do that since forever," Roger breathed.

Freddie's head spun. He felt just as disoriented as he had when he had first spotted Roger, in what felt like an age ago, but was just an hour or so. He breathed deep, and allowed himself to become lost in the brightness of Roger's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And - something I really wasn't expecting - an amazing piece of art for this story! 
> 
> By the brilliant @binkyisonline, gifted by @quirkysubject (thank you)
> 
> Come talk to me in the comments! ✨


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New rehearsals and small steps towards intimacy (at last), with a couple of notes about the importance of cats on the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone who's read this, left kudos, or commented: thank you! It means so much! 💗
> 
> And thank you Quirkysubject for the fabulous beta, and for believing in this when I didn't 💖

**February 1977**

Freddie's whole world had shifted and changed with that kiss, and yet everything was still the same as it had been. Roger's smile was brilliant as ever, and being in his presence warmed Freddie like nothing else could. It was a joy to walk next to him, and the thought of the next weeks and months filled him again with an expectant anticipation, instead of the dull hopelessness he had been bound by for so long. But all of that, after all, was nothing new. And there was nothing particularly remarkable in it, not to Roger. He extended his warmth and attention to everyone around himself, after all. 

But there was also something new about it. Something had changed the moment Roger had drawn Freddie close and their lips had met, there in the sheltering darkness of the back of the stage. There was no escaping it, and no way of denying it. Freddie was well and truly in deep: completely infatuated.

They hadn't actually discussed the kiss. Not in so many words. Or not yet, in any case. The moment of closeness had passed far too quickly for Freddie's liking, and anyway, it had ended in a rather anticlimactic fashion. While Freddie had still been reeling from what had happened, there had been the sound of voices from somewhere nearby – probably from somewhere on the stage, or perhaps it was a stagehand preparing to do something about the jumble of cords scattered all over the floor, ensnaring unwary feet. Freddie had just been thinking that kissing Roger was definitely fabulous, and that they should try it again to see if it continued in the same way. But the noise had startled them both, and they had sprung apart. Roger's grin had been wry. It had felt difficult to act normally after that, to pretend that there was nothing out of the ordinary, and not continue what they had started. At least Freddie hoped that they had started something.

The rest of the afternoon had passed in a flurry of activity, anyway, and there had been no opportunity to discuss any of it. Freddie had been reintroduced to Miami – the nickname had slipped out without conscious thought on Freddie's part, and the director had merely smiled and let it pass without comment. It wasn't until now, when Freddie was going over the events of the day back home, in the quiet of the night – far too quiet, and far too lonely – that he realised how rude he had been, and how much he had assumed. Freddie put his hands over his mouth in horror, but of course it was too late to do anything about it. 

He shook his head, going back to sorting out his tights and slippers for the next day. Maybe he should just put on some music, to distract him just enough from the loneliness so that he could cope. And in any case, Miami had promised to take up contact with the Royal Ballet, and he had told him not to worry, and just to concentrate on dancing. _Easy for Miami to say,_ Freddie thought. But it wouldn't do any good to let it eat at him.

Roger and Freddie had parted soon after the chat with Miami, with many promises to call and to plan their new performances. A first rehearsal date had already been agreed on, and Freddie felt a little giddy, thinking about it all. He left the rest of his training clothes to their own devices, moving towards the window. He felt something touching his leg gently, and he looked down, finding the cat winding itself around his legs. Freddie followed Tom's trek towards the sofa, sitting down and folding his legs underneath himself. As the cat settled down, Freddie pressed his face against Tom's soft fur for a moment.

If he tried very hard, he thought he could still feel his lips tingling a little bit from the kiss earlier. And then he laughed at himself. He sounded like the world's worst lovesick fool. But it felt wonderful to revel in the memory, and he didn't want to let go of it. He wanted to believe it was real – he wanted to believe that this was not just a crush; he wanted to think that he was in love. At least for a little while. Whatever happened afterwards, however things played out (and he knew very well how badly it could go), he wanted to have this moment. Here, with only Tom there to see his foolishness, he would let himself indulge in a fantasy of happiness. It was easier that way, than to think about how empty the flat now felt.

* * *

The next Friday, Freddie warily approached the Beach House. It still felt odd to round the corner in Euston and see the brick building ahead of him: to be on the way to actually dance instead of spending a night in the audience, watching others. Like he was doing something illegal – something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Like he was breaking all the rules. But if he were honest with himself, there was a bit of a thrill to that, too. 

He hadn't told anyone at the company that he was going. And he probably should have informed the higher-ups of his plans. But it couldn't be all that terrible, what he was doing, could it? There would be plenty of time for discussing it later on, wouldn't there? For now, he was simply going to dance with a friend, and practice some things for a while. (There was no need to mention the kissing to anyone, was there?) On an afternoon when he didn't have anything scheduled, even. It wasn't wrong. No one could have anything to object to there. 

Maybe if he told himself that enough times, he would start believing it, too.

Once inside, Freddie found that the dressing rooms were much like they were at the Royal Ballet; much as they were everywhere, really. You could describe them as utilitarian, almost Spartan in style. That was all perfectly all right, but the thought of meeting Roger again was quite another matter. It had been just a few days, but Freddie had spent an embarrassingly large amount of that time wondering about how he would feel when they would finally meet again. Would things be all right? Or would everything suddenly have become awkward?

To make matters worse – or better? Freddie couldn't tell – it was going to be just the two of them for this first rehearsal. It had sounded like a good idea to go through the choreography on their own first, before adding music and other people to the mix again. But now, when he was faced with the reality of being alone with Roger, Freddie was more nervous than excited. Although, of course, it was just going to be work, nothing more than that. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. 

Freddie almost lost his way, trying to find the right studio in the unfamiliar building. When he thought he had finally found the right place, he was taken aback by the presence of a technician. Freddie thought it was probably the same person that Roger had seemed to be so friendly with the other day – the one with the wiry build and the receding hairline – but he wasn't sure. In any case, the technician was doing something strange and complicated-looking to the lights of the studio, going in and out of the door at intervals, and Freddie didn't want to disturb him. The other man had grunted something about it when Freddie had first come in, but Freddie hadn't quite heard him, and he didn't dare ask, either. And so he had tried to concentrate on where he was leaving his bag, and starting to get used to the strange space. He was so rattled at that point that Roger almost managed to sneak in unnoticed. Almost. Freddie lifted his eyes from the floor and looked in the mirror, and startled, met a pair of blue eyes staring right at him. Roger smiled at him, and came closer. Freddie's heart was suddenly in his throat and he stumbled where his feet had been quick and sure, had known what they were doing, just a moment ago.

"Can we talk?" Roger asked, without any preamble. 

Freddie nodded, and then waited to hear his doom. He couldn't seem to help the dramatics, he thought wryly. His heart was now performing an impressive series of jumps – some kind of _tours jetés,_ perhaps – in his chest. 

But Roger didn't seem to quite know how to start, after all. He dragged a hand through his artistically mussed hair, and looked out of the wide windows, as though he hoped to find an answer somewhere in the air.

"Freddie, I –" Roger finally began. "I wanted to say to you, or ask you – about that."

"About what?" Freddie didn't know what Roger wanted to hear.

"You know what," Roger whispered, leaning closer. They were alone. Even the technician had left, for the moment. But it was still wise to be cautious, and not draw too much attention to themselves, just in case there was someone outside.

Freddie swallowed. "You mean – about the other day, back there –"

"Yes," Roger said. Freddie thought that he saw Roger's gaze catching on his lips for a second, but it was such a fleeting moment that he couldn't be sure that he hadn't imagined it.

"So. I mean. Are we all right?" Roger asked.

"Of course we are," Freddie said. "Why wouldn't we be?" 

Roger hummed, leaning forward into Freddie's space. "So would it be all right if we –"

Naturally, that was the moment when the studio door opened, and the technician came back with a clatter of tools. Roger straightened quickly and called out a friendly greeting to the man. The moment had passed, once again. But whatever Roger had wanted to say, Freddie never got to find out. For all he knew, Roger might have wanted to discuss shoe sizes or something.

It was as though something was conspiring to keep them from properly addressing it. Freddie tried to resign himself to it. Maybe it was better that way. Not that anyone would object out loud, he didn't think, but wagging tongues could do harm in any case. And perhaps his own heart would be safe for a little while longer.

* * *

Luckily, he had other things to distract him. Despite Freddie's doubts, everything seemed to fall into place with surprising ease during the next week. A little too easily, perhaps, Freddie thought, and then tried to stop being so cynical. He had, after all, promised himself that he would try to enjoy it while it lasted. But in any case, the rest of the dates and times were quickly thought out and agreed on. Brian made an appearance at the Beach House, and he seemed to be equally at home there as he was at the Royal Ballet. They slipped almost seamlessly into working together again. Brian made encouraging noises even on behalf of his musician friends and all in all, he didn't seem too sad about the idea of freelancing away from the Royal Ballet for a while.

With every day passed, though, Freddie was more and more aware that he was still missing an official sanction from the Royal Ballet. He hadn't heard anything from Miami, and neither had anyone at the company taken contact with him. He needed permission to be able to appear at the Beach House, as per his contract. But the idea of going to one of the directors – or Jarvis, for example – made his stomach churn. It was supposed to be a thoroughly uncomplicated thing, an everyday occurrence; people appeared as guests at other companies all the time. But what if someone decided to make life difficult for him? Just because they could? What would happen then?

Life at the Royal Ballet had never been particularly easy, and Freddie had never quite felt sure of his footing. And now more than ever, he kept thinking that there were suspicious glances and whispered conversations wherever he went, voices that stopped talking the moment he walked into a room. Perhaps he was imagining it, but habit made him wary. And long experience told him that it was a good idea to watch his back.

But Mary was perhaps what he worried about the most. Since she had moved out, just before Christmas, things had been strained. Despite all their promises, they had exchanged perhaps ten words in all. Freddie didn't know how to bridge the gap, or how to start talking to her again. He tried to wait for her at the end of company class, but she always seemed to be surrounded by friends, smiling apologetically at him from a distance.

And it was true, too, that with every new day that went by, Freddie felt the silence and the emptiness in the flat more keenly. No matter how much he tried to fill the void by putting on music, or the radio, or humming to himself, or talking to Tom (Jerry, the other cat, was far less inclined to listen to his rambling), it all just seemed to emphasise the absence. The only light in that particular darkness was that most of the time, Freddie was so tired at the end of a long day's rehearsals and discussions that he fell into bed and into a mostly dreamless slumber almost immediately. 

Still, and at the end of the day, the wonderful far outweighed the troubles brewing on the horizon. Most of Freddie's thoughts were preoccupied with what was now starting to happen at the Beach House. Innuendo took up much of his time, and he was grateful, really, for the chance to immerse himself in it and forget about everything else. Or try to do so, at least.

There was, after all, no shortage of things that needed to be decided, or arranged, or dealt with in some other way. The choreography, in itself, was not a problem. It hadn't been that long since they'd danced it, and most of it was still fresh enough in Freddie's mind. They had to adjust some things to fit the different performance space at the Beach House, but it was a welcome challenge. They had to view the work from a different angle altogether, and for Freddie, the change felt invigorating. It was a far cry from needing to relearn the exact same steps he had danced for years, too many times to count, in exactly the same way on exactly the same stage, for exactly the same audience.

But one thing that had been on Freddie's mind were the costumes. Or the lack of them, actually. Since the shimmering creations they had used the first time around were the Royal Ballet's property, it wasn't certain that they would be able to borrow them. But, unexpectedly and without even having been explicitly asked, Phoebe resolved the whole thing for Freddie. One day, just as Freddie was trying to get his tights to sit right just before a rehearsal, Phoebe unexpectedly poked his head into the dressing room. 

"Please don't tell me it's bad news," Freddie sighed, warily. The rehearsal for was for a new work, and that would usually have been a good thing – but it wasn't going all that well; he couldn't seem to please the choreographer, no matter what he did. And, try as he might, Freddie simply couldn't bring himself to like the piece. It was the music, really, he thought. Mahler just wasn't his cup of tea.

"Oh, no, no, I hope not," Phoebe smiled bashfully. He motioned for Freddie to come with him. Freddie followed, intrigued. Once they were in the corridor, with no one else around, Phoebe turned towards Freddie.

"These are for you," he said. "I think they might come in useful."

With that, he pressed a sheaf of papers into Freddie's hands. Freddie, puzzled, turned the first one over, only to be met with a gorgeous drawing of a deep red cape, drawn with bold strokes. It took his breath away.

"Are these all your work?" he began. "How did you even know that I'd need…?"

Phoebe shushed him. "Oh, there's always talk about these things. You know that. But I just thought you could use them. You know, for that thing you're working on."

Phoebe looked shy, checking the corridor around them furtively for any interlopers. He pushed the papers more firmly at Freddie. He even gave his shoulder a light touch, shooing him away when it looked like he was going to start looking through the colourful pages again.

"Not here, Freddie," he said. "Please. Not now. It's a gift, that's all. Nothing more. Just see if there's something in them that you like and tell me later. I'll see what I can do about it. Is that okay with you?" 

"Okay?" Freddie breathed. "What do you mean, dear? It's so much more than just okay. I can never repay you."

"Just go and dance," Phoebe said. "I'd like to see the two of you dance together again." There was a light in his eyes, and a smile on his lips. "You don't know just how important it is to me."

Freddie didn't know what to make of it, but he resolved to make it up to Phoebe as soon as possible, in some way. He decided there and then that they were definitely going to use the drawings – and make sure that Phoebe would get the credit for them, too.

* * *

It was also becoming more and more evident by the day that there was something more than just friendship between Freddie and Roger now. It wasn't just all in Freddie's head, anymore. They had started flirting lightly with each other again, and this time around, Freddie could admit it to himself that that was what they were doing. It felt familiar and comfortable, and he loved it, and would no longer deny that. But there was also a glint in Roger's blue eyes that spoke about something more. Or of a different kind of comfort, perhaps. Something less calming and much more exciting.

That's what Freddie was hoping for; only he didn't quite know how to move forward with it. He didn't know how to break their habit, and so they didn't talk about it. But they circled around each other, watching cautiously, gauging reactions, exchanging meaningful glances.

More significantly, though, there had been other kisses, too, now, besides that first one. But they were careful, quick touches: there was a brush of lips on a cheek in a corner of a deserted hallway, and a feather-light kiss that Roger planted on Freddie's lips in the last seconds before the footsteps they heard out in the corridor came in to the dressing room. And a hand on Freddie's waist that lingered for a couple of moments more than was strictly necessary.

And in the middle of their third rehearsal at the Beach House, Roger even touched Freddie's bare shoulder with his lips, swiftly, fleetingly. It was all over so quickly that Freddie was sure no one else had noticed. Had someone asked about it, they could have explained it away. Completely accidental; of course it had been. When they worked so close together, and sought to find the best way of expression, it was inevitable that they would sometimes touch even when they hadn't meant to.

Freddie blushed completely scarlet anyway, but that, too, was easy enough to explain away by the effort and the exercise.

While he was still thinking about how to explain his reaction away, Brian was already getting impatient at his dithering, wanting to continue the rehearsal.

"Freddie?" he called from his place at the piano. "Are you okay to go again now? Once more from the top?"

Freddie opened and shut his mouth, trying to find the right words. Roger had already moved to the other side of the studio, and Freddie caught a flash of Roger's bright grin from the other side of the floor, made even more radiant by the sunlight slanting in from the high windows. Naturally, Roger looked completely cool and unaffected. Like nothing had happened. Or like it was just an everyday occurrence. The bastard.

"Yes, of course," Freddie said. "I just needed a moment, Brian. It's getting a bit warm in here."

"Really?" Roger called, innocently. "I think it's kind of on the cool side today, myself. Like the heating could be turned up a degree or two. Maybe we need to step it up a notch. Liven things up. What do you think, Freddie?"

Freddie looked up at that. There was a definite teasing note to Roger's words that made him at once determined not to be outdone. He didn't even try to hide the toothiness of his grin, this time. "You do that, darling. Maybe we could try it a little faster? Or should we start right from the lifts? Would that do? To get your pulse up?" 

Roger's bark of laughter sounded almost surprised. "I think that might be just the ticket. Shall we?"

Brian's sigh was long-suffering. "Whenever you're ready, then."

The tone of the banter – halfway flirty, halfway competitive in a good-natured way – bled over into everything in what they were doing, Freddie thought. And it made everything that bit better.

But still, they hadn't really _done_ anything, either. Kisses and small touches and heated glances were all very well, but what if that was all that Roger was after? A little light flirting and a bit of teasing? If he didn't after all want – if Freddie was the only one who _wanted?_

Freddie looked at Roger's strong shoulders and the play of light on the slim muscles of his arms. He yearned. He let himself do that, now. He watched Roger's capable hands, adjusting a shoe there, moving from one position to the next, and remembering the feel of them on his own waist, secure and warm. 

The balance couldn't hold, not like this, and not forever, he decided. Freddie would have to do something about it before he went mad.

* * *

Roger's presence galvanised Freddie. There was fire running through his veins, and it didn't matter that the expression was a terrible cliché: that's precisely how Freddie felt. The sun shone brighter, and the time spent with Roger was filled with laughter. 

There was an incredible energy in Roger's dancing. Freddie loved watching him. There was something very special in the effortless physicality and sheer joy of movement contained in his jumps, in particular. Freddie enjoyed being close to that energy again. Oh, how he had missed it. So much had been absent from his life when Roger hadn't been there. 

He watched as the muscles of Roger's powerful legs bunched as he was getting ready for a jump. And the way that he seemed to be always in movement, never still. The moment he landed after one breath-taking jeté, he was already moving towards the next one. He was never quite still, and one movement changed into the next one with supple grace, with a liquidity of movement that Freddie didn't remember ever seeing. Not quite like that, not in anyone else's dancing. And the thing was, Freddie reflected, that when he was watching Roger, there was never the sort of jealousy that he often experienced when he looked at other dancers. No feeling of inadequacy when he saw a jump that he knew he couldn't replicate quite like that, or feeling too short or too much of a lightweight, as with others. Perhaps it was Roger's enthusiasm, and the warmth of his smile, the one that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside of him, and admitted nothing but delight in his own movement and in sharing it with others.

For Freddie, the lifts at the end of the choreography were still difficult, technically, and coming when they did; they were an exercise in negotiation and finding a different way of holding himself altogether. They were tremendously exciting, too. There was no denying it to himself: that was the moment that Freddie was looking most forward to, in the choreography. That newness and that challenge, and needing to trust someone so completely. It was something unlike anything he had done during his career before this.

After they had been practicing for quite a while, there came a moment when they stopped for a quick breather. Behind the piano, Brian frowned and picked up a pencil, starting to scribble annotations into his sheet music. Freddie sighed and crouched down on his heels, breathing deeply.

"I'm not sure I can do that again just now," Freddie said. "That was quite a lot."

Roger exhaled audibly, beside him. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe it's time to call it a day. You think?"

"Well," Freddie temporised, hesitant. "We still have another half hour to go. Are you sure?"

"I think so," Roger said. "It's coming along pretty well, don't you think? Oi! Brian!"

The pianist lifted his eyebrows. "Yes?" 

"I think we're done for today. That okay?"

Brian looked between them. "I suppose so. I could play for a while, though, if you're not using the space… would that be okay?"

"Of course," Roger lifted a nonchalant hand. 

Freddie remembered something.

"Oh, no," he said. "Wasn't John supposed to come by today, after we finished? To go through some of the things we want for the lighting?"

"So he was," Roger's face fell. "It's not that I don't want to talk to him, but I'm knackered."

Brian stood up hastily, knocking a couple of sheets of paper to the ground in his wake. "It's no matter," he said. "You two can go. I think we can go through all of that with John on our own. We'll run it past you later."

"Really?" The grin on Roger's face dawned slowly, and grew wider. He touched Freddie's arm with an elbow, gently, a touch that was barely there. "Are you telling us you have something to say to John that you can only say _privately_?"

There was a trace of red on Brian's sharp cheekbones, but he turned his head away quickly, hiding his expression behind his cloud of hair.

"Oh, go on," he muttered. "I'm trying to be polite here, and this is the thanks I get?"

"I'm sure he didn't mean it like that," Freddie tried, placating.

"Oh, I did," Roger said, unrepentant.

"You're hopeless, you know?" Freddie said. "Brian, please ignore him. And give John our best."

"Will do. Thank you." Brian flashed a quick smile in Freddie's direction. Freddie couldn't help noticing that the blush was still in place on his face. At least he wasn't the only one having trouble staying cool and unaffected.

Freddie quickly dismissed Brian's feelings from his mind, though, when he found himself alone with Roger in the corridor just outside the studio.

"Um. So. I was wondering," Roger said. "Are you busy after this?" 

Freddie's heart was suddenly in his throat. It was certainly becoming an impressive performer in its own right, he thought, giddily. Was Roger really asking – finally –

"Not really, no," he breathed.

"Would you come home with me?"

"You mean that –"

Their eyes met. Roger's were pools of blue, deep enough to drown in. Or perhaps they were flames, hot enough to burn anyone and anything venturing close.

"I wanted to talk to you," Roger said, voice low. "There never seems to be a good time for it. There's always so many people around. And, well –"

"I think I live closer, though," Freddie said. Somewhere, he found the courage. Maybe it was the thought of the echoing loneliness of his flat, and the need to banish it. Or the fleeting thought of spending an evening with Roger – and then having to come back to that emptiness. Anything but that. He shuddered minutely.

"Kensington? It's not that far," Freddie continued. "I hope you don't mind cats?"

"No, not really," Roger said. "Got many of them?"

"Two, at the moment. Although I've been thinking about getting a third one. Some company for them, you know?" Freddie said, nerves making him babble.

"Won't your flatmate mind if I come over?" Roger asked, carefully. He studied the pattern of tiles on the floor. 

"There's no flatmate, not any longer," Freddie said. "She moved out just after Christmas. It's just me these days, and Tom and Jerry. We're all alone there." 

He glanced at Roger, sidelong, surprised when he didn't respond. "Didn't you – I mean, didn't you know?"

"No, I didn't," Roger shook his head. Their eyes met. "Will _you_ mind?"

Freddie stopped in his tracks and turned to face Roger properly. This was it, then. He had to get it out, somehow. "On the contrary," he said. "I'd love to have you."

Roger grinned, perhaps at Freddie's choice of phrase, but didn't say anything more to that. After a moment, they continued to the dressing room, chatting amicably about cats. The tension between them wasn't forgotten, though.

* * *

They kept it up during the journey, talking about this and that, laughing about everything and nothing. But gradually, the closer they came to Freddie's flat, they fell silent. Freddie looked at Roger from under his lashes, trying to gauge his mood, but to be unobtrusive about it. However, he had an inkling that Roger could feel the weight of his gaze. 

When he finally pulled the door to behind him, Freddie could bear the silence no longer. He had to say something or he would burst.

"So, here we are," he gestured around, at a loss for anything more significant to say. "Sofa, table, record player… well, you can see that yourself, of course. Where have the cats got themselves to? Or maybe you'd like some tea? Or perhaps something else? Oh –" his face fell. "I don't have anything to actually drink here, right now. Or maybe there was a bottle of the red that we bought way back when, somewhere over here – I could check. I haven't had the time to –"

"Freddie," Roger said. He rounded the table in Freddie's sitting room, his eyes steady. "It's all right. We're all right."

He came up to Freddie, slowly lifting his hands and lightly taking hold of Freddie's upper arms. His touch was hesitant, barely there, as though he was afraid of scaring him off. But Freddie wanted more of that. 

"Keep breathing," Roger said.

Freddie laughed, rather shakily. "I think I might have forgotten how to," he said.

"I could tell." There was a hint of a grin on Roger's face. "It's okay. I don't want to – to pressure you into anything."

"You aren't doing that," Freddie said. It felt like he was frozen in place, incapable of acting, when he wanted to touch and to feel – but couldn't convince Roger of it.

"We can go slow," Roger insisted. "We don't need to do anything just now. "

Freddie shook his head. "Not – not that slow," he whispered, trying to get the words out. "I want to – can we –" he lifted a slightly shaking hand to Roger's cheek, following the line of his jaw slowly. 

Roger shifted his arms, gathering Freddie closer, until he had pressed their bodies together. It was very different from anything they had done before. The physical closeness on the stage was something completely else than this. There was an intent in the contact, a breathless expectation – and that _want,_ of course, underneath it all.

Freddie's hands tangled in Roger's hair. He moved his thumb over the soft skin of the nape of Roger's neck, carefully, reverentially. Was he really allowed to do this? 

"Is it okay if I –" Roger said.

"Yes," Freddie said.

They breathed the same air; and then, at last, there was no distance between them at all. Their lips met, and the kiss quickly deepened. Their tongues explored slowly, cautiously, and everything around Freddie was Roger: his scent, his warmth, his body.

And suddenly, it was all too much for Freddie. He had dreamed so much of this, and he had weighted it with so many expectations, that he felt like he was shaking apart. Or maybe he felt like crying. He pulled away minutely, trying to catch his breath.

"Roger, I can't – I'm sorry, I –" he tried to explain.

"Shh," Roger murmured, his hands still around Freddie, stroking his back comfortingly. "Don't worry about it. Do you think," Roger asked, voice breathy and much lower than Freddie had ever heard it, "how about it if we just slept, tonight? Would that be okay with you?"

Freddie closed his eyes, feeling the tears that were in danger of escaping. "More than that. It would be perfect," he said.

It was as though some pressure had lifted, and they could simply enjoy each other's company again. They settled on the sofa, sharing a glass of the red that Freddie managed to locate after all. Their legs tangled together, and they chattered amicably, gossiping and joking until Freddie's eyes began to droop. After a third time they both found themselves yawning hugely, they dragged themselves to the bedroom, where it seemed only natural to sleep close together. Freddie wondered in passing whether they looked like a pair of cats, entwined there in the middle of the bed, but the exhaustion from the pressure and the relief of the evening dragged him under quickly. Roger's warmth against his back and the sound of his breathing lulled him to sleep, and for once, he wasn't alone in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hadn't meant to take this long between updates - my apologies! The story is definitely not abandoned!
> 
> Freddie's dislike of Mahler here is completely an authorial invention for story purposes 😄
> 
> Do come talk to me in the comments!


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